


Don't Scream About, Don't Think Aloud

by Aria_i_Adagio



Series: The Opposite of Falling [3]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Comes Back Wrong, Drug Use, Eventual Smut, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, M/M, Other, Pre-Canon, Red Plague (The Arcana), brief noted and summary of that bit available in end notes, dubcon, morally grey asra, okay now there's smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:53:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 38,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23514970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria_i_Adagio/pseuds/Aria_i_Adagio
Summary: Wherein two broken people orbit each other.  And do more damage than either of them ever intended.  It never ceases to amaze the ways that hurting people hurt each other.Ch. 1:  Wherein Asra Returns Home to a Ghost and a Ghost's LoverCh. 2:  Wherein Julian Learns a Bit More and Asra ReconsidersCh. 3:  Wherein There is Rain, and Wind, and MemoriesCh. 4:  Wherein There are Various Kinds of DancingCh. 5:  Wherein There is Yet Another Kind of Dancing - NSFWCh. 6:  Wherein Desperation Starts to Sink InCh. 7:  Wherein Very Desperate People Do Very Desperate ThingsCh. 8:  Wherein Asra Can't Quite Work MiraclesCh. 9:  Wherein Things Have Fallen Apart
Relationships: Asra/Julian Devorak, Julian Devorak/Lucio (The Arcana)
Series: The Opposite of Falling [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594276
Comments: 60
Kudos: 78





	1. Stranger Things Could Never Chain My Mind

**Author's Note:**

> A humble [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7kf6XCS2sMB15DUY4tlm8l?si=dVVDTv7AR0a17xWoF29vsg) offering.
> 
> Work title from Collective Soul, December.
> 
> _“Why follow me to higher ground?  
>  Lost as you swear I am  
> Don't throw away your basic needs  
> Ambiance and vanity"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Red Hot Chili Peppers, "Otherside."

Knocking at the front door of the shop almost roused Asra from the grey, half-life nightmares he wandered in. He fluttered his eyes open for a moment and ran his fingers over Faust before pulling the ragged, little bundle in his arms closer and rolling over in the nest of pillows in the back room. Other times, he might have listened to the knocking. Gotten up and gone to the door, grateful for rescue from the dreams tugging at his arms, at his legs, at his hair. But not now. Right now, he deserved the nightmares - the ashy dunes, the skeleton trees swaying with chains of fire, the charnel houses with their stacks of bones. 

The knocking continued; he ignored it. Ignored Faust flicking her tongue against his cheek, and her quiet repetitions. _“Up. Wake. Up. Up.”_ No. He needed to stay down here. In the horror of it all. No more running from it.

The lock of the front door turned with a shriek and the hinges creaked, accompanied by stabs of red light behind his eyes. Maybe the door, maybe the dying screaming and the fire consuming flesh, leaving behind bones to be gathered by the people left. 

“Hello? Um, hey, Asra?” A voice he doesn’t recognize called out. Hesitant, male.

He sat up slowly and rubbed a sooty hand across his equally sooty face. Faust licked his arm then slithered off to the front room of the shop. He paused for a moment, then tucked his bundle into a corner, safe beneath a blanket. His legs shook when he pulled himself upright, like he’d walked all day without a break. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been curled up in the backroom of the shop, not sure whether awake or asleep was the more tolerable state. A surprised yelp from the front room. Asra pushed back the curtain, ready to throw out the trespasser - if whoever it was didn't turn tail and run after seeing a haunted wreck covered in ash.

“Who are you?”

“Oh, um. Hi. Artemis told me you had come back. I . . . That must be Faust.” The intruder was a youngish man, tall and ridiculously skinny for his height with auburn hair flying around his face in wild curls. Faust was raised off the floor, tail flicking with curiosity, but Asra supposed that could be interpreted as a threat by someone unfamiliar with her. 

“Who are you? And how do you have a key to the shop?”

“I . . . maybe you should sit down. You don’t look like you should be standing.”

He was right about that, at least. Asra stepped behind the counter and dragged over one of the stools, sitting heavily down on it, the rest of his weight on his arms in front of him. “You still haven’t answered either question.”

“I’m . . . uh, Julian.”

Asra raised his eyes back to the man’s face. Angular bones, eyes lost in dark circles, sharp, aquiline nose. And a liar. At least, lying about his name. “That’s not your real name.”

“Ilya. It’s Ilya.”

Faust curled around Asra’s leg, working her way up to his lap. “And how do you have a key, Ilya?” 

“Dema gave it to me.” Ilya placed a key on the counter. His hand started to shake as he pulled it back to his chest. “She, um, wanted me to give this back to you too.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket and set a small object down. A simple ring, gold and silver twisted together then flattened. Asra’s breath caught in his throat, and he closed his fingers around it. He had given it to her, something simple that wouldn’t catch on anything when she was working in the stillroom or in her garden. He’d worked a spell into it as well so that he’d know if she was in trouble.

_Knowing doesn’t help when you left me._ Her voice was a whisper behind him. _Left and went as far away as you could._ Asra stopped himself from looking over his shoulder. He won’t see her there, won’t see her at all. Hasn't seen her any of the multiple, multiple times he's heard her voice since he got back to the city. He closed a trembling hand around the ring and looked back up. Ilya was watching him, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“You’re the reason she stayed, aren’t you? The reason she’s -” He jerked his hand back to his chest, clutching the ring and ignoring how it cut deeper into his torn palm. Dropping his eyes to the counter, he hissed. “Get out.”

The man didn’t leave. He was silent for a minute, staring at Asra from across the counter and worrying at his bottom lip. Finally, he shook his head.

“Your hands. Those need to be cleaned. Bandaged.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” The man was right on one level, but Asra didn’t deserve that kind of care. He deserved to leave his hands raw, bleeding, slow to heal, until they scarred - if they healed at all. That would be right on a deeper level. “Get. Out.”

“I did. But I’m not going to until you let me get those cleaned and dressed.”

“What does it matter to you?”

“I cared about her. She cared about you, so, um, by extension . . .”  
What right did he have to say that. What right did he have to that logic. Not when he had just been told to leave. To go away. Preferably to have never existed. Asra picked up Faust and draped her around his neck. She settled around his shoulder with a reassuring squeeze. _Let help._ Faust was probably right. She usually is.

“Okay.” Still leaning heavily on the counter, Asra staggered across the room and slowly up the stairs. The man - Ilya - followed him, at one point catching Asra’s elbow and steadying him before he could fall and tumble down the narrow staircase. He settled Asra into one of the chairs at the table, filled the kettle with water, knelt down by the stove to ask the salamander to light it, and then disappeared into the bedroom returning with a blanket that he draped around Asra’s shoulders. As he did Faust slid down into Asra’s lap, coiling herself into a little ball, but without any of the contentment, she usually radiated there.

“You seem to know where everything is.”

“Um, yes, about that . . .” Ilya was reaching into one of the upper cabinets for a bowl. He doesn’t finish the sentence, but Asra understood. For a second, she’s there, arms wrapped around Ilya’s waist, head pressed against his back, barely reaching his shoulder blades. Then she’s not there. Ilya filled the bowl with water and sat down across the table from him.

“Give me your hands.”

Asra set the ring he was clutching down on the table and complied, feeling too numb to protest again that he could take care of himself. Ilya turns them over in his own larger, slender hands, studying the abrasions. “How did you do this?”

“Digging.”

Ilya arched an eyebrow at him, but didn’t ask any further questions, instead just washing away the worst of the soot and ash with water that stung despite having nothing in it. “She kept your ring on if it makes any difference. Said you’d change your mind and come back.”

_You can’t be left if you’re the one always doing the leaving. Right, Asra?_ Her voice again. Asra glanced to the side and saw her out of the corner of his eyes, leaning against the counter, arms crossed over her chest. 

“If she had come with me, she’d be fine now.” He looked back at Ilya and felt a moment of regret, whatever remained of his heart sinking into his stomach when he saw tears forming in the man’s already sad grey eyes. He didn’t need to be cruel. Not really. Not when there was already enough pain in the room. “I’m - why are you helping me?”

_Maybe he’s a better person than you._

“I told you.” Ilya dumped the water, grey from soot into the sink then rinsed the bowl. He looked back over at Asra, found a teapot, spooned leaves into it and filled it with water from the kettle. The bowl was filled next before he rummaged through the cabinet where Anna, and then Dema, had kept various things for minor cuts and burns. “She’d want me to.” A simple answer, roughly the same thing he had said downstairs. He added something to the hot water from a bottle and retrieved a bundle of clean old rags torn into strips for bandages a tin with a salve Asra recognizes - extracts of various antiseptic herbs in aloe. He sat back down and soaked one of the bandages in the hot water before picking up Asra’s hand again, frowning at the abrasions on his fingers and palm. “This stuff does sting. Do you, uh, think you could conjure one of those light ball things? It's starting to get dark in here.”

In the soft glow of the light Asra summoned, Ilya turned Asra's hands this way and that, carefully inspecting the abrasions and cuts for any remaining dirt. Asra hissed in surprise when he drew out a splinter from his palm. Probably bone, but he'll keep that to himself. “Sand and ash, what the hell were you digging around in to manage that?” Asra didn’t answer, just kept his eyes on his hands, avoiding looking at Ilya’s face. The man muttered to himself, working free other splinters and bits of bone that he had missed the first time. Finally satisfied, Ilya dabbed ointment on the worst of the cuts and neatly wound bandages around Asra's palms and the first two fingers of his left hand.

“There.” Ilya sat back and looked at him. “You should keep a close eye on those, nothing is deep, but you tore a lot of skin. Keep them covered during the day, but it’s probably better if you leave them open to the air at night. Oh, your face, didn't think about that. I can -”

“Leave it.” He flexed his hand experimentally. It hurt, but everything moved as it should. No real damage. That was almost too bad. He felt there should be something there. Something truly wrong with the physical to reflect how wrong everything else felt. “I'll clean up later.”

“Are you sure? You -”

“I'm sure.” Ashes. In some places, he had visited mourners marked themselves with ashes. He'd leave them for now.

_The ashes of the actual dead, Asra. That's a step farther, don't you think?_ She's sitting across from him, leaning over the table, chin propped up on her hands. With a shake of her head, she sat back in her chair, then leaned against Ilya, arm curling around his. _Ash grey isn’t a good color on you - someone might think you've seen a ghost._

Ilya shrugged, but he didn’t look convinced. “It's, um, your call. I -”

“Go. I can take care of myself. I always have.”

_Except when I did._ She leaned forward, expression shifting from taunting to concerned. _And maybe you shouldn’t have to take care of yourself. Not all the time._

Ilya looked unhappy, but he nodded. He stood up from the bench. Dema’s hand trailing along his arm as he did, fingertips brushing across the back of his hand, maintaining contact as long as possible. At the top of the stairs, he stopped and turned back, one hand still resting on the railing. “I'm sorry. That I couldn't - that I didn't - keep her safe.”

Asra said nothing, looking down at his hands, and after a long silence, Ilya left, boots thumping on the wooden stairs, the loose one that Dema had kept saying she was going to fix - and then forgetting to actually fix - squeaking under his foot.

Across the table, her lips quirked into a smile, cold again. _And what did you do, sweetheart?_ Quicker than he could possibly respond she's gone, leaving behind an impish laugh that echoed through the empty room.

* * *

Overly tall. Overly talkative. Overly earnest.

And after a month in the palace, Asra was more than over Ilya Devorak. 

All he had wanted was access to the palace library. He had exhausted the collection of books Anna had kept in the shop, and while there were hints at what he so desperately needed to find in the one or two books that remained of his parents’ library, those were only hints. Hints and warnings that he ignored because he had absolutely no other option than to find what he was looking for. He couldn’t manage being so very, very alone again.

Asra daydreamed his way to the Magician. Asked for advice. The fox arcanum shook his head sadly and refused to answer, not even with another question before turning away and leaving Asra standing alone on the beach.

Coming to the palace and claiming that he was looking for a cure for the plague seemed reasonable. The library had been collected over generations, and somehow had survived the neglect of the past twenty years under Lucio’s rule. And it was not quite a lie on Asra’s part to say that he was searching for a solution to the plague. After all, he was looking for a cure. In a way. A cure for a very specific instance of the plague.

Muriel said he had gone quite mad, and even Inanna seemed displeased by the idea, laying her eyes back against her head and turning away when Asra leaned over to bury his face in her warm fur. Once he was in the palace there would be no escape. That the Count would keep him, would put Asra to work for his own purposes. Didn’t Asra understand? The Count never, never did anything to help anyone other than himself. That was who he was, and Asra needed to remember it.

The Countess - tall and elegant, with eyes that were so very, very sad - received him with tea and tiny sandwiches, the crust carefully trimmed from the bread. She commented on his youth and asked him about his experience with magic, healing, the plague. His confession that he wasn’t a doctor, not at all, not any type seemed to relieve her, for some reason that he didn’t understand. As she escorted him to the library, she made polite small talk, inquiring about the journeys he had made, seeming delighted when he mentioned Prakra and practiced his faltering grammar and vocabulary with her. She corrected his mistakes gently and promised to seek him out again if he wished for more practice.

“Well, Asra the Magician, here is our library. I trust you'll be able to find a free desk. Most of our volunteers have long given up. I hope that you'll have better luck.”

“I do too, Countess.”

“Please just Nadia, not enough people call me Nadia anymore.” She smiled at him and the exhaustion lifted from her eyes for a moment. “You'll inform me at once if you require anything, of course. I wish for all your needs to be met while you’re a guest here.”

Left alone, Asra wandered around the library, reading the spines of books and acclimating himself to the organizational system. Study desks - indeed, abandoned - were set into odd corners and private nooks. One, tucked under a window appeared to be in use. Asra scanned the objects on the table. A stack of books, a pile of papers, scrawled over with nearly illegible notes.

Ilya, he found out a few hours later, once he had made a nest of pillows and books in a spot that would catch the afternoon sun, was the only other person who continued to search through the books. That first day, they exchanged silent nods, which Asra had thought was an agreement on how things would proceed. Cautious silence. But no. The next day Ilya asked if Asra's hands had healed, and then he couldn't seem to stop himself from bouncing ideas off Asra - or perhaps the wall and Asra was just in the way - as he paged through old volumes, talking to himself, apologizing profusely to Asra when he realized what he was doing and sneaking sips of something from a flask hidden in his coat pocket when he thought Asra wasn’t looking.

Faust decided that she liked the skinny doctor and left Asra to his reading to coil around Ilya’s shoulders or curl up in his lap, and after a few times, Ilya stopped jumping nearly out of his chair when she did, trading the overreaction for absentmindedly scratching her head.

Asra had never been so jealous in his life.

* * *

One of the shelves hides a passageway down into the dungeon where the doctors worked. Ilya seemed to be the only one who used that particular entrance, or at least, he was the only one to use it when Asra was in the library. A month or so after Asra started working through the books in the library, that shelf groaned open. Ilya, disheveled and with bloodstains on the sleeves of his shirt, staggered out. He pushed the shelf back into place and leaned his forehead against it, shoulders trembling.

Asra sat up and set aside his book. “You look worse than usual.” 

Ilya, for once, said nothing. 

Faust poked her head out of Asra's shirt and tested the air in Ilya's direction. “ _Okay_?”

“I don't think so,” Asra murmured.

_“Help?”_

“Not my business, Faust.”

She turned her head and fixed her eyes on him, sticking out her tongue in a gesture that looked particularly disapproving. _“Dema’s friend. Help.”_

Asra attempted to stare down his familiar before sighing loudly and clambering out of his nest of cushions. “Ilya, are you alright?” Asra stopped, one hand held up and out in front of him. Ilya was hunched over, forehead pressed against a shelf, actually crying. And not dignified crying, even if he had himself relatively under control. “What happened?”

There was a lag before Ilya answered, heavy unsteady breathing. “I can't keep doing this, Asra. They've all gone mad.”

“Who's gone mad?”

“Everyone down there.” Ilya slammed his fist into the frame of the bookcase. Asra winces, but the motion didn't actually threaten any of the books. Just Ilya’s knuckles. “No one says no, stop . . . this isn't right.”

“Did you?”

“I -” Ilya faltered. “I'm a coward as well.”

“Are you?” Faust hissed her disapproval in Asra's ear. Asra sighed. She was right. That wasn’t the thing to say. “Valdemar is pretty terrifying. I'm not sure I'd want to naysay them either.” He had met the head of research once, over tea with Nadia that had turned to wine with Nadia once the Quaestor had continued on their way to wherever it was they lurked.

“That doesn't. I should, someone should stop all this.” Ilya leaned back against the bookcase, shoulders still shaking. 

Asra glanced to his side. He could just see _her_ , in the corner of his vision, arms folded across her chest, waiting for him to do something. She had cared for this mess of a man after all. Asra resigned himself to what he was about to do and put a hand on Ilya's arm.

“Come on, Ilya, let's get you back to your room. You're clearly done for the day.”

“I, I'm not supposed to be. I just walked out. Valdemar -”

“Will continue to be a creepy menace whether you’re there to witness it or not.” Asra tugged on Ilya's arm, already regretting trying to help. “Come.”

The guest room in which Nadia has established Ilya wasn't far from the library. Or far from Lucio's wing of rooms which was convenient if the Count wanted to rail at the doctor in a fit of temper, but undoubtedly inconvenient for Ilya, for whom the Count seemed to have an unhealthy obsession. Probably because the red head was so easily pushed around, and Lucio did seem to enjoy having multiple people to push around. No wonder Ilya spent so much of his free time in the library. Of course, Asra had yet to hear Ilya complain about the Count, so perhaps he didn’t mind the arrangement so much. 

Asra wrapped his hand around Ilya’s arm to stop him from flinging himself onto the bed in the clothes he wore. “You're still covered in blood, Ilya.”

“I -” Ilya opened his mouth then closed it again, staring down at his shaking hands. “I'll never get it off,” he mumbled. 

Asra pushed him toward the small bath to the side of the guest room. “You'll be shocked to discover the magic of water then. Go on.”

Ilya stumbled in, still mumbling to himself, but did thankfully remember to shut the door behind him. Asra started to leave - getting Ilya back to his room should be enough, right? - but paused for a moment, examining the few objects laid out on the dresser. He picked up a tiny sculpture, modeled from clay and painted in fanciful colors. He recognized it. She'd make ones to complement the wood carvings he and Muriel did, in color at least, his were recognizable as specific animals, hers never quite intended to be anything so mundane, if they intended to be anything specific at all. A beaded wristband lay to one side, and an embroidered scarf - he could see it tied in her hair if he closed his eyes - was folded beneath them both. He moved aside the figurine and picked up the scarf, holding it close to his face. It still smelled of cedar and rosemary and her hair.

He put the things back where he had found them, not petty enough to begrudge Ilya a few mementos, and started to leave as the door to the bath creaked open again. He put the scarf back down on the shelf.

“Oh, I, uh, didn't think you'd still be here.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Asra caught the motions of Ilya hurriedly wrapped a towel around his waist. He turned back around, hands folded behind him.

“Are you going to be okay?”

“What is okay anymore?” Ilya - still dripping wet - sat down on the edge of his bed. “Anyone who is okay with all this, there's something seriously wrong with them.”

“I should be going.” Asra turned toward the door, ignoring Faust's protesting squeeze on his bicep. He still wasn’t fond of the doctor, even if his familiar was now a fan.

“What are you actually trying to do, Asra?”

“What?”

“I can't read all the books you have stacked into that fort of yours, much less understand them, but they're not about curing diseases or ending plagues.”

“I -” Asra turned back around. Ilya's grey eyes were clearly focused for the first time since he had emerged from the passageway and into the library. Asra fidgeted with his shirt sleeve, trying to think up a lie. 

Ilya looked away after a moment and leaned over picking up a half empty bottle of liquor from the floor beside the bed. He pulled the cork out and took a long drink, before setting it aside, this time on the bedside table at least. “I miss her.”

“I'm going to get her back.” The words were quick, a single breath that Asra immediately regretted and immediately felt relieved to have spoken out loud.

The uncannily calm look Ilya gave him was somehow devoid of any disbelief. “I hope you do, Asra.”


	2. I'm Not a Bad Man, I'm Just Overwhelmed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [She Wants Revenge, "These Things"](https://youtu.be/g4cVv0kb-Fs).

_“There's nothing to see here, people, keep moving on. _  
_Slowly their necks turn, and then they're gone, _  
_No one cares when the show is done. _  
_Standing in line and it's cold and you want to go. _  
_Remember a joke so you turn around _  
_ There's no one to listen, so you laugh by yourself.” _

_ ~She Wants Revenge, ‘These Things’ _

It had been a long day. Julian studiously avoided rehearsing any of it in his head as he walked through the palace hallways. With any luck (and a goodly amount of liquor) he'd forget most of it. A smudge on one of the columns stopped him short, reminding him of one of the things he wanted to erase from his mind. There had been new handprints on the passage leading to Valdemar's lab this morning. Tiny and barely two feet off the ground. Children's handprints, fingerprints drawing long lines that suggested that the child had been dragged along. Not again.

He pushed his hair back from his face and mumbled to himself. “Don't think about it, just don't.”

One upside to Lucio's renewed fixation with him was that he had a guest room in the main palace and did not have to sleep in one of those tiny dungeon cells in the laboratory, even if he probably deserved to suffer that trial with the others. It wasn't as good as escaping into the city . . . No, don't think about that either. Maybe he'd have a drink or two on his own, then find Lucio, find whatever sort of oblivion Montag - no, Lucio, he hadn't minded Montag in the past when he was still rebuilding, remaking himself, but only Lucio now - was willing to share tonight. Any would do.

Laughter, so very, very incongruous with the mood that should dominate the palace, rolled from the veranda and into the hall. Julian peeked around the door frame. The Countess lounged beside a table that was set with fruits, cheeses, and several bottles of wine. Asra stood behind her, working her hair into an elaborate system of braids. Ah, yes,  _ she _ had mentioned that Asra was rather good at braiding. Asra's snake was draped around the Countess's neck in a friendly position that Julian himself had decided was reassuring. He welcomed Faust's visits to his desk in the library now. Even if her master didn't appreciate her wandering off. As Julian watched, Faust lifted her head and poked her tongue out in his direction. The Countess looked up and caught sight of him standing there. She smiled. She did have a charming smile.

“Doctor, please, come join us.”

Asra looked less than thrilled about her invitation. Julian stepped around the door frame and rubbed his hands together in front of him. He had worn gloves all day; there shouldn't be any blood on them. Shouldn’t be. Probably is. Somewhere under the skin where he couldn’t see it, but he knew that the guilt was there, seeping into his own capillaries and working backward to his heart. “Um, my lady, thank you, but I was just headed back to my room.”

“Nonsense.” The Countess sat upright and rang a tiny brass bell. When a servant appeared a moment later, she instructed them to bring a third glass. “As you can see, Doctor, there is more food here than my friend and I can possibly eat, and while we're doing our best with the wine, some assistance would be appreciated. Have you met Asra?”

Asra let Nadia's hair fall against her back and fixed Julian with a cool look. Ah, so he was in that kind of mood at the moment.

“Ilya and I have met.”

“Ilya?” The Countess looked at Julian with surprise.

“Um, yes, I use Ilya, sometimes.” Or was it Julian that he used sometimes, he couldn’t quite recall anymore exactly when the ratios had swapped over. “Asra and I are, uh, often in the library together.”

“Studying.” Asra sat down on the end of Nadia's chaise and extended his arm for Faust, who coiled lazily around it, working her way up to his shoulders. 

“Excellent. No need for introductions then.” Nadia gestured to the empty chair across from her. Julian reluctantly folded himself into it, taking some consolation from the servant’s reappearance with another wine glass, which was promptly and overly filled for him. “Where's that darling old hound of yours, Dr. Devorak? She always cheers me.”

“Brundle? Oh, she's usually with the Count during the day. Mercedes and Melchior have taken to her.” And while there weren’t that many things that Julian trusted Montag with anymore, providing excellent care for a grumpy old dog was one of them.

“Really?” The Countess's eyebrows arched as she took a drink of her wine, nowhere near dainty enough to be called a sip. “Well, Lucio is good with animals, if nothing else. Have you eaten, Doctor? Help yourself.”

In fact, Julian had not eaten, and the invitation reminded him that he was hungry. He helped himself to several toasted slices of bread, spread with soft herbed cheese. The Countess smiled at him. The one thing she seemed to have in common with her husband was taking pleasure from people accepting her hospitality. Hers, however, seemed to come with fewer expectations.

“Asra tells me that he's making progress with his studies, but is frustratingly vague with the details. Perhaps you have some more concrete discoveries to share?”

“I'm afraid not, my lady. I'm, um, sorry to disappoint you.”

“Please, just Nadia.”

“Um, yes, of course, my, uh, Nadia.”

Asra badly hid a laugh behind his hand, and the Countess - Nadia - gave him a scolding look.

“I haven't really spoken to you since the Masquerade. Quite neglectful on my part. Have you been well? How is that lovely young woman you brought with you? The one in that dramatic red dress.”

“I, uh . . .” Julian looked down at his hands. They were trembling. Maybe just from not having eaten all day, but he knew better. At the limit of his vision, he could see Faust settling herself closer about Asra's shoulders and Asra's knuckles turning white from where he gripped the edge of the chaise.

“I -” Nadia read the words he didn't say easily enough. She reached across the table and set her hands on top of his. “I'm sorry, Julian.”

Still sitting on the edge of the chaise, Asra picked up the full wine glass and drained most of it. Julian wondered if she knew Asra's story - knew that he'd also lost his lover to the plague. If she did, clearly she hadn't put together that they'd lost the same lover. 

“Noddy! There you are!” Lucio's voice interrupted any further thoughts on that question. 

With a long-suffering sigh, Nadia leaned back on her chaise, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Yes, dear, here I am.”

Lucio strode onto the veranda, followed by Mercedes, Melchior, and Brundle, who made a beeline for Julian. Relieved, he leaned over and embraced the wrinkly hound, rubbing her ears and reassuring her that she had very much been missed during the day.

“You didn't come riding with me this evening, Noddy.” Lucio pulled an additional chair over to the table and sprawled in it, legs spread wide.

“Ah, yes, another headache, I'm afraid.”

Lucio chose a pear from the platter of fruit and bit into it, juice running down his chin. “I see you're well enough to entertain guests. Jules -” He extends his right hand and slaps Julian's knee, fingers curling just around the inside of his thigh. “Found a cure yet? And -” Lucio's attention shifted to Asra. “Who is this pretty pet of yours, darling?”

The muscles around Nadia’s eyes tightened forming tiny wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. She must not care for the implication that she collected pets in the same manner as Lucio. “Asra is an accomplished magician. He is using the library to research possible cures for the plague.”

“A magician? Fancy that. I practice a bit of magic myself.”

Asra refilled his wine glass and raised his eyebrows at Lucio. Withering - withering was the correct word for that look. He drained another half glass of wine in a single go. “Practice? That's very well. But have you learned.” Julian busied himself rubbing Brundle’s ears and waited for Lucio's temper to explode. Hiding behind a dog would be the safest place to be when it did.

“Well -” Lucio leaned forward, a predatory smile on his face. “Perhaps I need a private lesson or two.”

Asra set his glass aside and picked at his nails. “I don't give lessons, private or otherwise.”

“Oh, I'm sure I could make it worth your while.”

“Lucio, dear, please.”

“Just a joke, Noddy. A joke.”

“Hmph.” Nadia took another sip of her wine. Lucio finished his pear and tossed the core to Mercedes and Melchior who promptly began to snap at each other over it.

“Say Asra, did you know that Jules here cut off my arm?”

“I didn't actually -”

“- close enough. Terrible time, but I did end up with this beauty.” Lucio extended his golden arm across the table and tried to brush the fingertips over Asra's face. Asra leaned back out of Lucio's reach and narrowed his eyes. Julian just caught him make a subtle, but deliberate gesture with his hand. A wind, incongruous with the previously still air, started to blow across the veranda.

“It's one of a kind,” Lucio continued. “I made sure of that, had the magicians who made it put to death.”

The wind gusted abruptly, hard enough to flip the lightweight table over on Lucio as everyone was hit with a burst of cold rain. All three dogs started barking. Asra's upper lip curled in satisfaction as a glass of wine fell backwards into Lucio’s lap. Nadia glanced at the magician, then turned her cool, knowing eyes back to her husband, who was occupied with brushing the remains of food from his wine soaked clothes.

“What strange weather!” The Countess rose from her chaise with a graceful, fluid motion. “I believe we should all retire for the night. Asra, Dr. Devorak, good evening to you both.”

Her elegant exit was somewhat spoiled by her husband’s raging as he stalked after her. Mercedes and Melchior busied themselves with the fallen fruit and cheese, while Brundle flopped down and watched them, head resting on her front paws.

“That was an impressive way to end the evening.”

“Not nearly impressive enough.” When Asra stood, he swayed drunkenly on his feet. “I should go home now.”

Julian trailed him from the veranda and wondered just how many bottles of wine had been finished before he arrived. Asra made it past the arch of the hallway before stumbling. Julian caught his elbow before he fell to the floor. Asra pulled away from him and leaned against the wall, forehead pressed to the cool marble, and started cackling like an old witch in a cautionary tale for children. The kind that lived in a hut on chicken legs and would help you if you were clever enough, but otherwise would eat you up and use your skull to decorate. Faust poked her head out from underneath Asra's scarf and flicked her tongue against his ear.

“Please don't tell me you intend to walk home in this state.”

“Mmmhmm . . . Not staying here.” Asra lifted his hand and scratched Faust's chin. “Not with him around.”

“Asra, you're drunk.”

“No shit, Ilya.”

Julian sighed and prepared himself for an argument he was uncertain he wanted to win. “I'll walk with you then. Make sure you get home.”

“Okay.”

Julian already had his mouth open to insist when he realized that Asra had just agreed. “. . . Okay?”

“Yeah.” Asra stood up straight for a moment, steadying himself against the wall, before one leg wobbled. Julian looped one arm through Asra's, expecting to be pushed away. Instead, the magician leaned against his shoulder and wrapped an arm around his waist, pressing close. 

* * *

“So, you cut off his arm?” Asra's speech was remarkably clear for his degree of drunkenness.

“That's what he keeps telling everyone. I mean, I helped with the operation - as much as you can, um, call battlefield surgery an operation, it's more like butchery where you hope you don't actually slaughter anything.” Julian kept talking; it was better than silence. “I was twenty or so. I had decided to leave home and have some adventures. Signed up with a mercenary army when I was seventeen. They let me for some reason. Then their head medic pulled me aside and informed me that I was too damn young to fight, and I'd be assisting him instead. Two weeks later I saw my first battle. It was . . . well, I'd probably be dead right now if not for that surgeon. Who knows? Everyone might have been better off.”

Asra stopped and looked up at him, eyes inscrutable. Then patted Julian's hand and awkwardly looked away, perhaps surprised or ashamed of the gesture. “You couldn't have just let him bleed out? That might have helped.”

“You don't just let the company commander bleed out.” No, sometimes you put quite a bit of time and effort into keeping him alive, convincing him to get back on his feet, and then other things happened. Things that you never intended, but made sense at the time. As much as anything ever makes sense when you're in the first half of your twenties. So not much. Julian started walking again, dragging Asra with him. They were close to the shop. He could drop Asra off, put a pitcher of water and an empty bowl near him, and then find his way back to the palace and his own lonely bed. “He could have, pretty easily. Bled out. Caught a direct hit of shrapnel from a cannon. There wasn't actually much to cut off. Artillery is nasty business.” He'd watched the old company surgeon slit more than one throat. The old man said he could maybe keep some of them alive a day or two longer, but it'd be cruelty, not kindness. “Lucio tells everyone he endured the whole thing without making a sound. Liar. He screamed the whole time. Not, uh, that that's unexpected. It's the lying part that is just entirely Lucio. Ah, here we are.”

Asra traced a design on the door, unlocking it without a key and stumbled into Dema's shop - no, Asra's shop - not Dema’s not anymore. He sat down heavily on the floor behind the counter and rummaged through a low cabinet, until he found a small bottle. “Hangover remedy,” he mumbled as he pulled the stopper out and tossed it back.

“Yeah, you still need sleep and water too.”

Without responding, Asra levered himself out of the floor, clutching the wall for balance and started for the backroom.

“You still sleep down here?” Dema had too, at first, but she eventually cleaned and rearranged the upstairs bedroom enough that it didn’t remind her too much of her aunt and moved up there.

“It's where I sleep.” Asra flopped down on a pile of cushions in the corner.

“Look, I'm going to get you some water. Then I'll be on my way.”

Julian found a mug in the downstairs stillroom and filled it from the tap, hoping there wasn’t the residue of some poisonous plant coating it. It really wasn't enough water, not as drunk as Asra was, but he supposed it was better than nothing. He returned to the backroom and put the cup down near Asra, who was sprawled on his back across the nest of cushions, eyes closed. Faust had relocated herself to a small cushion beside him. Julian nodded to her as he started to leave. Then Asra said something.

“Those were my parents.”

“I'm sorry?”

“The two magicians he had executed. After they built his arm.” Asra wrapped his arms around a pillow and hugged it to his chest. “I never knew what had happened to them. I just knew they didn't come home one day.”

Julian worked out the arithmetic. Nine or ten was how old Asra would have been, maybe a year older. Bad enough to lose parents at that age - Julian knew that well enough - and Dema had mentioned Asra used to live on and under the docks like so many other orphans in this godforsaken city that didn’t seem to understand about taking care of lost children. To be completely alone . . . Julian hadn't really ever thought about what he would have needed to do to survive if Mazelinka hadn't found him and Pasha, then taken them to Lilinka and the other babushki in Nevivon. He'd have done anything, of course, for Pasha, but it wasn't a pleasant topic to consider.

“I see her sometimes. Hear her. I don't know if I'm haunted or mad. And that red dress! I can live with her wearing it for you. You're not too bad. But the idea of Lucio having seen her in it . . .”

“She added onto the top.”

Asra groaned. “I guess that's better . . . maybe. I found something. There is a way to summon the dead.” He changed topics again, continuing to ramble. “But without a body . . .”

“Drink some water.”

Asra propped himself up on his elbow enough to drain the cup of water “I know I must sound mad.” He flipped back down and rolled over onto his back, hugging the pillow tight to himself again. “But I'm not, Ilya. I'm really not.”

Julian can't stop himself from leaving over and stroking Asra's hair, pushing it out of his face and tucking it behind his ears. It's exactly as soft as he had imagined. “Try to sleep, Asra.”

He was at the door when Asra said something entirely unexpected. “Thanks. You really aren't too bad. Not really.”

Julian paused in the main room of the shop, leaning against the counter and rubbing his temples. It had been a long day. He was tired, he was lonely, and he did not feel like walking back to the Palace. The farther he was from that tangled mess, the better. Suspecting that he'd regret it in the morning, Julian climbed the stairs and walked back to the little bedroom. He took off his boots, tossed his jacket over the back of the chair, and curled up on the bed. It didn't look like Asra had touched it since he returned. Julian wrapped himself up in a blanket and clutched a pillow that still smelled like her to his chest, and slowly, miserably managed to fall asleep. 

* * *

Julian woke up to Asra sitting cross legged on the foot of the bed, a cup of tea balanced on one knee, looking far too chipper and collected for someone who had been falling down drunk the prior night. He would have liked to say that he was surprised, but nothing really surprised him anymore about Asra.

Asra took a sip of his tea. “Something you said last night is bothering me.”

“You remember something I said last night?” That  _ was _ surprising.

“I wish alcohol made me forget things. It doesn't.”

Julian sat up, rubbing at his eyes. Judging from the sun it was mid-morning, well past the time he was supposed to have been in Valdemar's hell hole. He'd worry about their response - if he had enough emotional reserves left with which to worry - later.

“I don't think everyone would have been better off if you died in that first battle.”

“Asra -”

“It's not your fault. That she . . . I shouldn't have said it was.” Asra picked up his tea, unfolded his legs and gracefully rose off the bed. He took one step closer to the head of the bed, put a hand on Julian's chest and pushed him back down. “Go back to sleep, Ilya,” he said simply and walked away.

Closing his eyes, Julian complied with the command.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Not to pimp myself or anything, but if you’re intrigued by the Jules/Lucio history, you can find some of that [part one](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22983445/chapters/54946858>here</a>.%C2%A0%20;\)%20And%20backstory%20with%20Asra%20and%20the%20apprentice%20or%20Julian%20and%20the%20apprentice%20is%20blended%20in%20with%20<a%20href=) and [part two](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22230961/chapters/53081266) of this series.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Break You Down 'Til Everything is Normal Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [The Arcade Fire, "Normal Person."](https://youtu.be/mVLsH3HmuKE)

The rain had been pouring for hours. Candles burned on either side of Julian’s desk; the clouds had obscured the daylight to the point of uselessness. He sat back in his chair and ran his hands through his hair. The texts that remained unread in the library's section on medical history were old ones, yellowed pages and obscure versions of languages with extra letters, different spellings, and utterly unstandardized punctuation. He'd figured out the differences between the archaic version of Drakrian in this text and the contemporary version language. A few shifts in spelling, a couple of verbal declensions that had fallen out of usage. The occasional word that had a cognate if you thought about pronouncing it with the tongue placement just a little further back in your mouth. Well, at least, he'd figured out enough of them to skim the text. 

But the volume of epidemiology didn't describe anything quite like the Red Plague. Furthermore, the author had limited herself to descriptions of epidemics; there was little to nothing on potential treatments or cures. Just recommendations to quarantine the sick and burn the bodies. Another dead end. Julian supposed it would make sense to skim the other books in archaic Drakrian, now that he had something of a grasp of it, but he had very little left in the way of hope that he'd find anything. _If only Nazali were here._ Besides Drakrian and Prakran were related languages. They might have a quicker or better grasp of the text than he could manage.

At least he had avoided the dungeons today, courtesy of waking up on the Count’s floor with mid-morning light spilling across his face. The last thing he remembered from the prior night was sitting beside the sofa in Lucio’s chambers, deep in an opium haze while Lucio played with his hair, and Valerius - sprawled across Lucio’s bare chest - grumbled about something. He was _always_ grumbling about something. 

Given that Julian woke up with a pillow under his head, a velvet cloak tucked around him, and all his clothes still on, the answer to any lingering questions regarding what happened next was _not very much_ . There was also a note next to him: _Took care of the monster for the day. Rest some, puppy. Keep the cloak. Grey always looked good on you._ Barely legible, of course - Lucio’s handwriting hadn’t improved much over the years, if at all, but then his own hadn’t either. 

He would have walked in the gardens or the city to clear his head - maybe stop by and see if there was anything he could do for Artemis - if not for the pouring rain. And Lucio had already wandered off with Brundle, so there was really nowhere else for him but the library. This wonderful, magnificent, so painfully neglected library. Times past he would have considered this heaven, or at least one of the heavens. Now, it was just one of the lesser hells of his current prison. 

He groaned and put his head down on the desk, completely at a loss. Maybe he’d take another look at the diagrams he and Nadia had been working on for a new aqueduct leading down into the city from the mountains. No one trusted the water in the city, even if Julian didn’t seem to think it was likely the vector of contagion anymore. Not when so many people continued to sicken after drinking water began to be brought in from the mountains. But hauling water into the city was an onerous task, and labor was getting harder and harder to come by. If nothing else, it might boost collective morale to have fresh water and not stuff that had spent days in a cask. That always improved the mood on ships anyway.

A cool body wrapped itself around his leg. He jumped with surprise, then reached down to scratch Faust's head. “Hello there, where's Asra? I haven't seen him all day.”

Faust pulled back from his hand, then did something very out of character. She opened her mouth and closed her jaws around Julian's fingers. Not roughly. In fact, he would have described the action as gentle if he hadn't been so shocked by it. Faust tugged on his hand before letting go and slithering over to the window and up onto the edge. She turned her head and looked back at him, red eyes imploring.

“Is there something you want me to see?” Julian recovered from his surprise at being bitten by the typically easy-going snake and got up from his desk following her to the window. “Who would be out in the garden? The weather is miserable right now.”

He pressed his palms to the glass. The window looked out over a willow tree and fountain. Asra frequently sunned himself by the fountain while he daydreamt, sometimes joined by the Countess, typically with the bottle of wine that had become her constant companion, but certainly, neither of them would be out there now. Not in this frigid late winter rain.

Except Asra _was_ out in the rain. Julian could just make out the flamboyant colors of his clothing through the sheets of rain.

“What the fuck? Faust, how long has he been out there?” The snake silently turned her head to him and bobbed her head. “Right. You, um, can't really tell me.” He really should stop expecting animals to reply when he talked to them. Even if, in Faust’s case, she did seem to be able to communicate directly with Asra. Julian grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and put it on, before lifting Faust off the window sill and draping her about his neck. She quickly hid under his collar and the hair that he had let get too long, probably glad of the warmth if she had come through the rain to fetch him.

Julian walked quickly through the palace halls, wishing there was a more direct way into the garden. Even in winter, the rain wasn't freezing this far north, but it was unpleasantly cold. You'd lose body heat quickly if you stayed out in it. _What was Asra doing out there?_ And if Faust had come to get Julian, something had to be wrong. Very wrong. The snake never left Asra for long. She'd visit with Ilya at his desk while Asra was in the library, but she always slipped away when the magician did. If she'd left Asra to get Julian - well, it's definitely bad if he's Asra's best option in the snake's estimation. Although, Faust had significantly more sense than Asra though, from what Julian had heard from Dema and observed for himself.

At the base of the willow tree, Asra was curled on the ground, face pressed against the rough bark, mud soaking into his clothes. His shoulders shook, although it's not at all clear whether that's from sobs or shivers. “Asra?” Ilya let Faust slide around her master's neck before he placed a hand tentatively on his shoulder. “Come inside. It's too cold to be out here.” 

Asra gasped and turned suddenly, curling against Ilya's chest instead of the tree. He wrapped his arms around Asra tucking him under his own overcoat, because how could he do anything else with someone so small and slight and shaking with misery. Over his shoulder Ilya could where he'd been carving a name into the bark. Her name. Of course. Asra kept such tight control over himself, always wearing a mask of charm when he was around other people. And he had only dropped that mask around Ilya once or twice, but one can only wear a mask for so long. And Ilya knew that Asra's grief was a layer of ash just hiding underneath his smiles and charms. 

“We've got to get you inside. Um, before, before you catch a chill.” Ilya stood up, trying to pull Asra to his feet, but the magician almost collapsed back into the mud. Not the place to try to talk him into some sort of calm state of mind. Not that doing so was likely anyway. Asra was at the point where he needed to be bundled into a bed to sleep off this round of acute grief. He tried again to get Asra to his feet, but the other was dead weight. Ilya picked him up, keeping him tucked underneath the overcoat and hurried back to the palace. _Damn, he's gotten really cold out here._ Above him, there's a flutter of wings and a soft coo. _Nadia's owl? She shouldn't be out in this either._

Ilya wasn't sure where else he could possibly put him, so he took Asra to his own room. Dried him off as best he could, scrunching his hair in a towel until it regained some of its usual fluffiness. Convinced him to take off his muddy clothes and put on one of Ilya's shirts, and wrapped him tight in blankets before making him get into bed. There's a knock at the door and two confused looking servants with a stack of blankets and clean, dry clothes and a tray of hot tea that Her Excellency had sent. _How did she know?_ No matter. The extra layers were good, and the one servant came in long enough to build up the fire while Ilya coaxed a cup of tea with honey - lots of honey - into Asra. Both staff members hurried away, likely concerned that the little white haired magician had caught the plague. To be fair, it wasn't an unreasonable concern on their part.

Julian tossed his own sodden outer layers into the floor and sat down on the edge of the bed. His boots went next, he'd clean the mud off the later if a member of the palace staff didn't beat him to it. He was getting spoiled here. If he wasn't careful he'd start expecting things to be done for him before he even had the time to think about, then where would he be once he left here. Was out on the road again. Nazali would get a laugh out of it for sure if he rejoined her completely softened. 

Down to shirtsleeves, he sat on the edge of the bed and poured a cup of the tea for himself. Chamomile. A good choice on Nadia's part. For a moment, he just looked Asra over, checking his eyes carefully for any signs of red, just out of habit, then patting his shoulder. Awkwardly. He didn't think that Asra liked him any more than he ever had, even if they'd reached a detente. “Try to sleep, Asra.”

No verbal response. Not overly surprising given how he'd found him. But he was shocked when Asra set his now empty cup aside and cuddled against Ilya's side, a forlorn little bundle of blankets and soft, snowy hair with a worried snake curled up in his lap. Ilya froze for a moment. Funny how he thought of himself as Ilya more often around Asra. Then set his own cup of tea down and hugged him tightly, because that seemed to be what Asra desperately needed at the moment. Rocked him a little, because he was still crying and generally people found rocking motions soothing. Eventually, the sobs slowed and turned to hiccups, and Asra laid down, legs folded up and knees pressed to his chest, but he didn't let go of Ilya's hand, pulling him down with him, back pressed against Ilya’s chest through the layers of blankets. 

“Don't leave me alone.” Asra's voice was small, barely there. And after a moment Ilya settled beside him, one arm still wrapped around him.

“Shh . . . I won't. Just, uh, sleep. Okay, Asra? Sleep.”

Ilya counted it among his greater accomplishments when Asra stopped shaking with sobs and drifted off into a sleep that Julian hoped was free of nightmares. Lulled by the tea and the steady rhythm that Asra's breathing finally settled into, he let himself follow. Rest. He did need the rest after all. 

* * *

Asra woke when hard winds began to whip the rain against the windows. For a moment, he wasn’t sure where he was, or who the warm body curled behind him belonged to. That had happened a few times recently. More than he liked to think about. Faust bopped her nose against his. _“Tall friend._ He rolled over. Yes. Ilya. Asleep with his hair falling over his face. Ilya who had dragged him back into the palace from the gardens. The rescuer he hadn’t asked for and wasn’t even sure he wanted. Still, he’s careful when he climbs out of bed. Waking Ilya would be a poor thanks. He'd never once seen the man look well-rested.

There’s a low fire in the hearth and an extra blanket on the bed. Asra wrapped the soft wool around himself and hunted for his bag, finding it in a chair. Faust remained in the bed, curling closer to the sleeping man. Asra told himself it’s just because the bed was warm and the room wasn’t. It had nothing to do with her sentiments.

His deck was in his bag, right where it should be. Sitting on hearth, he took the cards out and started to shuffle them absently. He didn’t have a question. If anything, his mind felt like a void. But even without intent, the feeling and rhythm of the cards moving beneath his fingers soothes whatever might be lurking within his mind. 

A wall of light passes through the room, followed immediately with a clap of thunder. Perhaps he should be more grateful. Waking up still curled around the willow tree in the middle of this storm would have been unpleasant, to say the least. And it wasn't as though Ilya owed him a rescue. _A second rescue._ Maybe a third, depending on how one counted it.

Ilya shifted on the bed and whimpered. There’s another gust of rain against the windows and another pained noise from Ilya. Asra collected the cards into a stack and set them aside. Blanket still wrapped his shoulder, he returned to the bed and sat down on the edge, looking over Ilya. He tossed in his sleep and grabbed a pillow, clutching it tight to his chest. Another clap of thunder, and he gasped, then said a name. _Pasha._ Or at least, that’s what Asra thought he heard. _Hold on, Pasha._

He moved Faust to his shoulders and watched. Maybe the nightmare would subside on its own. Subside and fade away, and Ilya wouldn’t remember when he woke later. After all, if Asra woke him now, he would remember it. 

But the whimpers turned into sobs and the tossing to flailing as the storm intensified outside, and Asra couldn’t just sit here and watch. He could, perhaps, get up and leave. Go somewhere else where he didn’t need to watch someone else tormented by memories better left unconscious.

 _No_ . _You're better than that Asra._

He reached out and closed his hand around Ilya’s shoulder, shaking him. “Ilya. Ilya. Wake up. Hey.” He shook his shoulder again. Harder this time. Thunder rumbled again, and Ilya bolted upright, arms flinging out violently to either side, crying out, grey eyes huge. His chest heaved with hard, fast breaths, then he covered his face with his hands and groaned.

Asra waited, unsure of what to do with Ilya. With Muriel he'd keep a little distance and hold his hand, maybe just his fingers until he had recentered himself, then he and Inanna would snuggle the big man between them until he realized where he was and that he was safe and that everyone around him was safe. That he didn't have to fight anymore. Dema... Dema he'd have already wrapped his arms around her from behind, grabbed her wrists so that she couldn't hurt herself before she was fully awake and held her tight against him, whispering anything he could think of in her ear, just so she'd know she wasn't alone with herself, with dark, devious parts of her mind. The ones that were always threatening to betray her again. Ilya though, he didn't know what would help. And Asra was a bit surprised at how much he did, in fact, want to know. 

Finally he decided to just touch Ilya's arm. “You were having a nightmare.” 

“I, um, nightmare, yes, I, I have those.” Ilya ran one hand back through his hair. “A lot.” he pulled his knees to his chest and curled around them, hiding his face.

Asra paused, then stroked Ilya's worry forearm softly. “Who's Pasha?”

“Hmm.”

“You kept saying that name?”

“Pasha.” Ilya lifted his head and turned his face to Asra. There were tears on his cheeks and in his sad grey eyes. “Pasha is my sister.”

“And saying, hold on, don't drown.”

“We, um, I mean, my whole family, not just me and Pasha. We were in a shipwreck. I was . . . Very young. Pasha was even younger.”

“Is that why the storm . . . ?”

“The ship broke up entirely.” Now that he has begun talking, it didn't seem clear that Ilya would be able to stop. “I grabbed her and part of a mast. And just held on. Current washed us up on a beach. In Nevivon.”

Asra extended his arm, letting Faust slide onto Ilya's shoulders. She coiled loosely around his neck and nudged her head against his chin. “Your family?”

“Everyone else died. At least, uh, that is, as far as I know.”

“I'm sorry, Ilya. Truly.”

“The village there took us in though. It could have been worse.” 

Asra could hear what Ilya didn't say. _I could have been like you._ It would be easy to hate him, hate him for having the bad luck of losing followed by the good luck of being found when Asra had no option but to make his own way. To do all the ugly things that one did to get by on your own when you were young and scared and hungry and alone. No, he's not that self-absorded. Not quite. “Still. I understand how hard it is to lose your family.”

“I -” Whatever Ilya was about to say, he abandoned it and dropped back against the pillows, flinging an arm over his eyes. 

Asra pats Ilya’s arm. The motion feels awkward, even if it was only a few minutes ago that he was snuggled in bed with the man. He gets back up and returns to the hearth, still wrapped in a blanket and begins dealing his cards out in front of him. Aimlessly. No purpose at all. “I don't know why you've been kind to me. I don't deserve it.”

“Everyone deserves some kindness. Well, almost everyone.”

Asra looks up at him. “Do you really believe that?”

“Yes.”

“No wonder she . . .” Asra didn't finish the statement out loud. But yes, no wonder that she had liked Julian. Someone with a huge heart. Someone who seemed to give a shit about doing what was right. Not just surviving.

_But she also liked people who could survive._

There's another flash of lightning. In the shade between the light and the roll of thunder that followed it, Asra just looked at Ilya. He didn't know what to say or what to do. The thunder shook the window panes, and a shudder ran through Ilya's body. 

There's another flash of light through the room, and for just a moment, Asra could see Dema limned by it. She was leaned over the head of the bed, hands in Ilya's hair, lips pressed to his forehead. The ghost - the hallucination raised her face to him, eyes imploring, then with the thunder, she was gone.

Everyone deserved some kindness.

Asra set his cards aside and crawled into bed beside Ilya. He tossed the blanket over both of them and curled up next to the man, throwing an arm over his chest and tucking his head against Ilya's shoulder. There was just enough time for Asra to begin to doubt, to worry that he made a mistake, then with a choked sob, Ilya rolled over and clung to him.

Especially people who were already kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	4. Caught up and Lost in All of Our Vices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [Bastille, "Pompeii"](https://youtu.be/F90Cw4l-8NY)

Asra was drunk - again. Drunk again even though he had resolved that he was going to hold back for a couple of weeks. At least one week. But it was so easy around Nadia, with her apparently endless supply of lemony white wine. He should ask her if he could have a bottle, take it to Muriel sometime when he made time. He needed to make time. Muriel liked lemons. Probably not as sweet as this wine. Although, Muriel had never had many opportunities to try sweet things. And he did like roast eel, which is fairly sweet as these things go.

He’s drunk and dancing with Nadia, head resting on her shoulder while Ilya played a tune on a vielle, fingers surprisingly skillful - why should it be surprising that Ilya has skillful fingers - on the strings. They’d pushed the furniture in the music room to the side on a whim, clearing plenty of floor space, with cushions set aside for Brundle and Faust, and Asra wished that he could play an instrument, but he’d never had the time. Or access to anything other than the pennywhistle he had stolen once. He’d futzed around with it for a week or so before getting frustrated and selling to another one of the street kids. Nadia could play any number of instruments - the harpsichord by the window, a proper flute, probably anything. She was lucky like that.

Nadia laughed as Ilya finished the song, spinning Asra out along her arm one last time. She brought him back to her and kissed his forehead fondly before pushing him away. He let her and immediately wanted to be close to her - close to someone warm, and calming, and protective - again.

“Shall we switch for a bit, Julian?” She picked up a bottle from the side table and drank straight from it. Julian bowed gracefully to her and carefully set the vielle aside. He wasn't as drunk as Nadia, or Asra. And it didn't seem fair, but Julian didn't seem to care as much for the sweet, citrusy wine. Or maybe he just had a higher tolerance from sipping rum all day.

The warmth in Asra’s cheeks is just the wine, certainly it’s just the wine, but he still can’t help but smile as Ilya takes his hand. Nadia hits a few discordant notes then her fingers find the correct placement, pulling a sweet, slow melody from the instrument. Asra let Ilya lead, leaning in close against his chest. Ilya tried for a few bars to begin the steps of an actual waltz, or tango, or foxtrot, or something like that, but gave up with a chuckle, settling for swaying in place, arms cradling Asra.

“Am I, uh, am I going to end up carrying you home again?”

“Do you want me to?”

Asra snuggled closer to him. “Wouldn’t complain.”

Ilya tilted his head back, laughed, and ran a hand up Asra’s back and through his hair. “You’re drunk, Asra.”

“Not that drunk, Ilya.”

“Uhuh. Sure.”

The door of the music room crashed against the wall, and a tortured series of notes poured from the harpsichord. Spell broken, Ilya stepped back from Asra. With a sigh, Asra stepped back, falling back onto a nearby sofa. The room spun a little around him. Maybe he was a bit more drunk than he thought. There was water in a carafe on a nearby coffee table. Nadia. Always thinking ahead. 

The dogs were the first in, one them prancing around Ilya, then leaping up to put her paws on his chest. The other flopped down next to Brundle on a heavily embroidered cushion. And Lucio, stomping in overly polished boots. Asra drained the glass of water that he had poured, badly, some had splashed on the arm of the sofa, and he silently apologized to whoever would have to brush the velvet back to its proper sheen.

“Noddy . . . Jules . . . having a party? Didn’t invite me?”

Asra watched through half-opened eyes as Lucio wrapped his arms around Ilya - not Nadia - from the back. Ilya’s shoulders tightened, then he rolled them, shrugging Lucio away from him, and Asra can’t help but be pleased by the gesture. Lucio shook his head a little then patted Ilya on the shoulder and joined Nadia on the bench, one leg kicked out in front of him.

“I’m bored, Noddy.”

What a whiny, nasally voice. How had anyone ever listened to that man?

“Are you now, dear? I’m sure Valerius could find something for the two of you to do.” 

“Val’s being dull. Says he has to work on something or another. Books.”

“That’s too bad.” She pushes the hair that’s fallen out of its braid back from her face and turns again to the keyboard and starts picking out another tune, the notes stiff and low. Annoyed notes.

Lucio tugged on Ilya's shirttail where it had pulled free from his waistband. “Come on, Jules, let's go spar a bit. Like we used to. Wouldn't want you getting out of practice.”

Ilya didn’t seem overly enthusiastic or particularly bothered by the suggestion. “Sure, sure, just give me a minute.” Lucio grinned like a child who just unwrapped an especially welcome gift, but his face fell quickly when Ilya grabbed his own glass of water and set down next to Asra. Inwardly, Asra smirked and let his head roll onto Ilya’s shoulder, all without fully opening his eyes. He could see enough to enjoy Lucio’s irritation. And he didn’t need to see at all to enjoy how Ilya wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close.

Ilya finished his water and jumped up from the sofa. He stretched his arms over his head, back cracking. “Alright, Lu.”

Lucio clapped his hands together once and leaped off the bench. Behind him, Nadia rolled her eyes. She rose from the bench, straightened her skirt, and pulled Asra off the couch as Lucio and Ilya left the room, followed by all three dogs. “Come along, Asra dear, I know you’re not quite as drunk as you’re acting.” 

He retrieved Faust from the back of the sofa, linked arms with the Countess, and batted his eyes up at her. “Me? Playact?”

“Never, I’m sure.”

* * *

There’s a room dedicated to weapons practice in the palace because of course, there was. Asra shivered because, even at a much smaller scale, the space reminded him of the public arena in the city, and any pleasant warmth left over from the alcohol fled his blood. Nadia caught the tremor that ran through him and squeezed his hand, pulling both of them to a wooden bench set to the side. Torches with polished mirrors behind them lit the room, various weapons that Asra hoped were dulled for practice hung in racks, and a layer of sand covered the floor. Lucio selected two and tossed one to Ilya, who caught it easily by the hilt. Maybe this wouldn’t go so badly.

Ilya and Lucio spread out a few feet from each other, both testing their footing on the sandy floor. Some signal that Asra missed passed between them - a nod or otherwise - and Lucio moved first. Sweeping his sword slowly, giving Ilya plenty of time to respond. At first, it was just play - just a different kind of dancing. Attack, parry. Lucio shouted instructions at Ilya, correcting his form, pointing out where he could have gotten through his guard. Ilya improved as he warmed up and muscle memory came back to him, long limbs moving with more confidence. He pressed back against Lucio, pushing him back a step or two at a time, and Lucio called out fewer instructions. 

Suddenly, Lucio began to push back, arms moving elegantly through the air as he drove Ilya toward the opposite edge of the ring. Hard. He got past Ilya's guard enough to scrape the point of his blade along the other's cheek before Ilya knocked the blade aside. A shallow cut, but enough to bleed. The count was playing no longer. Actually angry? Showing off. For Nadia? For himself? Just to remind Ilya who was in charge? 

Asra didn't especially care why. There's a trickle of red running down Ilya's cheekbone, just like all the cuts Muriel had endured, and once again it's fucking Lucio's fucking fault. Lucio twisted his sword, flinging Ilya’s out of his hand, then pulled his own back and raised it into the beginning of a swing. Asra flicked his fingers, loosening the sand beneath Lucio's boots and pulling - just a little - at the count's balance. He tumbled back, falling onto the sand floor. Ilya looked flummoxed for a moment, then took advantage of the fall, snatching a knife from his boot and darting forward to kneel with one knee on Lucio's chest and the knife hovering over his throat. Nadia clutched Asra’s hand and gasped in dismay because they both know that Ilya would never follow through, and Lucio would be enraged.

Ilya and Lucio stared at each other. A few hard, panting breaths later, Ilya dropped his knife to the side and straightened up, leaving his knee on Lucio's chest. Lucio ran the back of his good hand over his face, then burst into laughter. 

That was not at all what Asra had predicted for the outcome. He let the spell that he already had prepared to send Lucio into enough a coughing fit to force an end to activities dissipate into the air. He thought that it had been very restrained of him indeed. He could crush Lucio’s windpipe entirely. He probably should.

“Good, Jules. Well done! You haven't forgotten everything I taught you.”

Ilya stood up then offered Lucio a hand, pulling him up from the floor. The count dusted off his pants and clapped Ilya on the back, apparently in good humor about the whole thing. Then a lie. “I'll just have to go harder on you next time, eh, Jules.” Still not what Asra had expected, but a little closer. Lucio salvaging his own inflated ego.

Lucio whistled to his dogs and strode away pausing just long enough to replace the practice sword in the rack by the door. Nadia looked Ilya over, then nodded to Asra before calling Brundle to her and leaving as well. Ilya watched him go, hands by his side, broad chest still heaving as he caught his breath. He shook his head once Lucio had left - trying to clear it - then walked to one of the benches along the side of the ring and sat down with a huff.

Asra followed and stood in front of him, looking down at that curly hair and those impossibly soft eyes. Ilya tilted his face up, his smile lopsided and charming.

“That was, uh, a new experience.”

“Not the position you usually find yourself in?” Asra ran his thumb across Ilya's cheekbone, healing the cut there.

“Yeah, well, um -” Ilya's cheek reddened and he laughed. “Lucio usually wins. I'm not helpless with a sword, one of my grannies taught me some, and she doesn't fool around, and, um, Lu actually -”

“You're talking too much, Ilya.” Fingertips still touching Ilya’s cheek, Asra sat down beside him on the bench, pressing his leg against his muscular thigh. Faust lifted her head from his shoulder and touched her tongue to Ilya's face. “ _ Salty.” _

“You did something, didn't you, Asra? Wanted to see Lucio lose.”

Asra shrugged and moved his head closer to Ilya's. He did smell of salt and better than Asra cared to admit - even to himself. “Or I wanted to see you win.” He ran his thumb across Ilya's bottom lip then kissed the corner of his mouth. 

Ilya moaned and leaned his forehead against Asra's for a long moment, before returning the kiss with a greedier, needier one, tongue moving between lips.

Asra broke away first and stood up, looking down at Ilya. Those grey eyes were wide with surprise and some other emotion - longing, desperation, wonder? It didn't particularly matter. Asra extended his hand, and once Ilya had wrapped his long, slender fingers around Asra’s, pulled him to his feet. Faust slithered down his arm and coiled herself around Ilya's shoulders. Asra chuckled and bright Ilya's fingers to his lips.

“Let's go home, Ilya.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit short.
> 
> Remember to wash your hands, and if you're in one of the US states that decided to lift safer at home orders *side eyes my governor* for the love of God, wear a mask to the grocery and at least try to keep six feet between yourself and others. Some of us are still trying to keep our 92-year-old grandparents healthy. Kay thanks. But I'm sure, my lovely readers that you were doing this already. Rant over. I love you all, dear readers.


	5. I Liked the Way My Hand Looked on Your Head - NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [Live, "Iris"](https://youtu.be/Vl3bhPF8EYk)
> 
> Notice: EVERYTHING BELOW IS SHAMELESS SMUT, if that's not your jam, skip this chapter. If it is, hope you enjoy. ;)

By the time they’ve stumbled - then walked - back to the shop, Julian was entirely sober, and, at least, Asra was capable of walking a straight line. He unlocked the door the same way he always did, tracing a symbol that glowed briefly before the latch clicks. So much show when a simple key did just as well. He nudged the door open and seized Julian’s hand and hauled him into the interior of the shop. Once inside, cool fingers moved from Julian’s hand to his cheeks, yanking his face down into another kiss. 

Julian closed the door behind them once Asra broke away and watched him settle Faust into a padded basket on the counter. He leaned close and whispered something to her before grabbing Julian’s hand and tugging him into the back room, plush and crowded with rugs and cushions. Asra picked up a candle, and it flared to life in his hand. He nodded, perhaps to Julian or perhaps, just in satisfaction with his own magic. “Undress.” A simple single word as he paced the room lighting other candles and lamps in an entirely mundane manner.

“Umm, how?”

“Do you need help, Ilya?”

“No, I uh, how do you want me to?”

The corners of Asra's mouth turned up into a faint smile. He has a dimple in one cheek.  _ Of course, he does. _ Everything about him  _ is infuriatingly adorable _ , and the only reason Julian hadn’t noticed this detail before was because Asra so rarely smiled. He stopped in front of Julian and ran a hand over his chest, already bare from where he habitually buttoned and unbuttoned his shirt throughout the day. “Slow, fast - however you like. I just want to see you.”

Julian’s out of his clothes before any other thoughts or questions or doubts could form in his brain. Asra circled him slowly, trailing his fingers along Julian’s collarbone, over one shoulder, down his spine, back up again. Julian shivered as soft lips pressed against his shoulder, then dropped to his knees as Asra pressed down gently. Another touch along his collarbone and Asra’s back in front of him, fingertip warm -  _ when his hands warm up - _ under his chin.

“You're gorgeous.” The statement was a single breath, passing through Asra’s mouth to caress Julian’s cheek.

Gorgeous wasn't a word Julian would use for himself. For Asra, yes, but not for him. He knew he was attractive, or at least, that he used to be attractive, before all the sleepless nights and the overconsumption of alcohol. But even before, not gorgeous. Handsome, appealing. Or he thought that he had been. Maybe people just liked that he'd go along with whatever they wanted from him.

“I'm -”

“You are.” Asra smoothed his hands down Julian's arms, then back up, cupping his chin and running his thumbs over Julian's lower lip. “Has no one ever told you that before?”

“Doesn't mean I believed them.” He had, at some point, when he was young and overconfident, but that was a long time ago.

“Do you believe me?”

“I, uh, I don't know.”

Asra tilted his head to the side, a disappointed little frown on his lips. “I guess I can't blame you for not believing me. Not after all I’ve said to you that I didn't mean. But I mean this. It's true. Gorgeous. And your eyes. There's still a soul behind them.”

“What do you mean?” The statement confused him. Most eyes had souls behind them. Almost everyone's. Even Lucio still had a soul behind his eyes.

“So many of the dead are still walking.”

The statement also didn't make sense, but it wasn't the first time that Asra stated something that made absolutely no sense as though it were the simplest of universal laws. As obvious as a stone hitting the ground when you dropped it. Not that they always did when Asra was around, so perhaps that's it. He has one foot in the mundane and one foot in the surreal, and from all Julian heard from Dema, Asra  _ doesn't _ understand either, even if he  _ thinks _ that he does. Sometimes stones fall. Sometimes stones float. Sometimes the dead walk around with no soul behind their eyes. Asra never questioned it. And for all Ilya knew of the mechanisms of Asra's mind, maybe some souls walked about with no eyes. Personally, Julian wouldn't care to meet one of those on the street.

_ Ah! _

Ilya's cheek stung from a slap, but it faded immediately. Light. A question, really.  _ Is this okay? Have I read you right? _ Then Asra's hand was gentle again against his cheek, thumb back on Julian’s lower lip, and he couldn't do anything other than open his mouth and run the tip of his tongue over it.

“I need you to stay with me, Ilya. Okay?”

That soft, sinuous voice, curving past his face and into his ears. “Um, yes.”

“No running off somewhere else in your head.”

“Asra.” Julian laughed.  _ Such an odd thing to do these days. _ “You're the daydreamer.”

Asra leaned down until his eyes were level with Julian's, and the corners of his eyes crinkled into an actual smile. “I suppose I am.” Asra touched his cheek to Julian's and started to whisper in his ear. “I want you. I want your pretty lips around my cock. I want to fall apart with me inside you. I want to hold you until you're together again.”

“Asra, I -”

“Is that something you want, Ilya?”

“Yes, Asra, please, yes.”

“Good.” And suddenly Asra was behind him again, the fabric of his shirt rough against Julian's skin, because no, Asra hadn't undressed at all, not yet, and his hands ran up and down Julian's body, pressing firmly. His warm mouth pressed against the back of Julian's shoulder again. “How do you like it? Soft?” Teeth replace lips, moving just a bit closer to his neck. “Or hard.”

“Harder.” He gasped as Asra buried his mouth in the spot where his neck and shoulder met with enough teeth to leave a bruise. Julian moaned, and Asra pulled away from him with a laugh. 

“I thought so.” Cool fingertips traced over the marked skin. “I love your freckles,” Asra whispered in his ear. Then his attention turned to the other side of Julian's neck, slower this time. Slower, but no gentler. Nips down one side of his back. 

Then a pause. Lips replaced by hands that stroked softly.

“How'd you get these scars?”

There were just two. And they weren't that bad. Several, several years old and fading besides. But Julian tensed anyway when the question was asked. “Got hit too hard.” He paused, then lied. “It was an accident.”

Asra caught the fib. Julian could tell. Tell from the way he went very quiet, then tenderly kissed Julian's shoulder. “I don't ever want to do something like that to you.”

“I know.” Julian sat still, just breathing and enjoying how Asra's hands felt on him. He didn't understand Asra, and Asra was certainly more than a little dangerous, but he didn't think he meant any harm. “It wasn't Lucio if that's what you're thinking.”

Asra was very quiet, even as his hands started to move again over Julian's back.

“But you're done with him, right?”

“Yes.” He'd never especially wanted to get involved with Lucio again, but Lucio had been something, someone. Someone who was very good at getting Julian's thoughts to shut down. And  _ that _ he'd needed.  _ Not Lucio _ . 

Now. Asra's hand skimmed along his back as lightly as a breath and that he needed - he wanted - more than - not anything. But almost anything.

“Good.” Lips dropped back to Julian's shoulder then moved to the base of his neck as Asra's arms wrapped around him from behind. “You're too good for him.” 

Asra’s hands ran over his chest, and clever fingers squeezed his chest until they found Julian’s nipples and pinched experimentally. He gasped and leaned his head back, and then Asra's teeth were nibbling at his ear lobe, his jaw, and it's good, but - “You can be rougher.”

Asra exhaled against his neck and even that felt amazing. “Just figuring you out.” He slid one hand up Julian's chest, pushed his chin up and to the side, and found his neck again. “You're so pliant.” His hands pulled away, and Ilya caught himself about to mewl in protest when Asra's fingers curled around his shoulders, kneading insistently. “And yet tied up in knots.” Ilya could think of some other kinds of knots he wouldn’t mind being tied up in. He opened his mouth but closed his teeth over his bottom lip instead of saying anything. Who knew if Asra cared for knots? Or puns? Or . . . ? “There you go, good boy.” Asra's praise was a balm itself, soothing some of the tension from his back, allowing Asra's fingers to work on what was left. “What word do you want to use? For a harder stop than stop. I mean, I'm going to stop if you say stop, especially right now, especially tonight, I'm not planning anything hard because well, first, and I didn't exactly plan this at all. . . But . . .”

Oh hell, Asra  _ is _ even more adorable when flustered. “Um. I don't, uh -” Julian glanced around the room. Why did people always think he just had some artfully chosen word floating around his head? Book, no. Candle, no. Bell. Too close to hell. “Violet.”

Asra pulled on Ilya's hair until he's looking up at the magician leaning over him. Asra's grin reached to the corner of his eyes -  _ oh, right. _ But he's mirthful - as if Julian had picked it on purpose. “Violet it is.” He kissed Julian's forehead then the bridge of his nose, as he let go of his hair. Then both Asra's hands were on Julian's front again, one moving slowly down his stomach, the other trailing up his chest, his neck, two fingers brushing along his lips, and he opened his mouth letting Asra slip past his lips with a moan.

Abruptly, the fingers withdrew from his mouth, and Asra's warmth was gone from his back.

He started to whine, but almost immediately, Asra straddled one of Julian's thighs, and wrapped himself around him, pressed their chests together, and nibbled at his neck, and -  _ oh _ \- ground himself against Julian's hip. Julian clutched Asra's ass, and tugged him closer until Asra's thigh rubbed against him. Through the trousers that Asra's still wearing.  _ Damnit. _

“You're still wearing clothes,” he gasped. 

“So I am.” Asra sat back, balanced with his arms stretched over Julian's shoulders. He cocked his head to the side and blinked slowly, exaggerating the feigned innocence on his face. “Not to your liking?”

_ “Asra.” _ This time it was a whine.

His eyebrows arched, and his mouth curved into a mischievous grin, and Asra readjusted his balance before undoing the mismatched buttons down the front of his shirt. He flicked the fabric off each shoulder, letting it crumple onto the floor behind him, uncovering his smooth chest. Ilya's hands moved with a will of their own, caressing the soft skin on either side of Asra's slender waist. Leaned close and nuzzled at Asra's neck, savoring the feeling of fingers in his own hair. 

“Want to, I want to, I mean, um...”

Asra took his chin and tilted his face up. “Yes, Ilya.”

“I want to suck you off.”

“Mmm.” Asra kissed him again, slowly, and stood up, arching his back into a stretch. He reached out and brushed his thumb over Julian's bottom lip yet again. “Such a pretty mouth.” His hands moved to his own waist and undid the first of the buttons fastening his trousers. Leisurely. Languidly.

Much too slowly.

Much,  _ much _ too slowly. 

Ilya tried to take over for him, undo those buttons faster. He couldn't be comfortable like that -  _ could he? _ Asra smirked and slapped his hands away. “Impatient?” Asra touched his own chin, then undid the rest of the buttons, then peeled off the trousers with a little shimmy of his hips that threatened to drag another desperate sound from Ilya. This time, Asra let him keep his hands on those perfect slender hips as he leaned forward, pressing kisses to the faint trail of white hair that led down from Asra's navel, then the insides of his thigh, smooth and soft as the finest silk. Asra's hands found his hair and tightened in it. Just encouragement to move a little back to the center. Not force.

Julian wouldn't have minded force.

But he'd settle for direction. Direction from Asra's hands twisting in his hair. Up and down and around, and working one hand in between Asra’s legs, finding that sweet spot between balls and asshole, licking his own lips and taking Asra's cock into his mouth, running his tongue back and forth over the underside, pulling Asra deep into his throat, and  _ no, it's fine _ that there's no force here because every pleased little sound coming from Asra's lips is one that he coaxed out himself. And he could get drunk,  _ could get high _ , off of those sounds.

“Ilya, oh.” His hips bucked, pulling back a little then thrusting in again. “You're, good, ah, very good.” Asra's stomach began to tense and one hand dropped from Julian's hair to his shoulder, pushing back slowly then brushing over his jaw to his lips. “Too good . . .” His breath was pants and little gasps. “Still want me . . .” A heavy, low breath punctuates Asra's question. “To fuck you?”

“If you, um, if you want to.”

“Ilya . . .” Asra knelt down in front of him with eyes that were no less intense for being half-lidded. He leaned in close, warm breath on Julian's lips then kissed him and pushed him back at the same time until toppled onto the floor with Asra laying on him and purring against his ear. “I said I did, didn't I?”

Anything Julian might have said was choked off when Asra's lips then teeth found his throat again. Hands closed around his wrists holding them against the floor while Asra dragged his body over Ilya's, cocks rubbing against each other, excruciatingly slow, because it's Asra, and Asra was always going to tease when given a chance. Teasing at every opportunity as he worked slowly down Julian's chest and stomach and - ah - back up the underside of his cock. Asra's mouth pulled back and his hand slipped under Julian's hips encouraging him to lift them enough for a pillow to be tucked under them. “Mmm . . .” Asra kissed the inside of each of his thighs in turn, nibbling and sucking at the left until Julian gasped. 

Asra patted one thigh. “Good boy.” He straightened, still kneeling between Julian's legs, both hands running over his stomach, eyes focused directly on Julian's. “Still okay, Ilya?”

“I'm -” He groaned as Asra's thumb brushed over his cock. “Good. Very good.”

“That's what I want.” Not just want Asra wants to hear, what he  _ actually wants _ . And realization alone sent another tremor from Julian’s toes to his head. Asra extended a hand out. There was a rattling from one of the lower shelves, and a cocky grin ahead across his face as a small bottle flew into his hand.

_ Of course. Asra. Drug. Magic. Sex. Asra. _

Asra pulled the cork stopper from the bottle with his teeth and poured a little into his hands. He started to set the bottle aside, then smirked and drizzled some of the cool oil over Julian's cock. Leaned over. Pressed soft - so ridiculously soft - lips against Julian's sternum and rubbed both hands along the shaft. Julian covered his mouth with one arm only to have Asra pull it away. “I  _ want _ to hear you, Ilya.”

Then one hand was back on Ilya's cock and the other was slipping between his legs, and he couldn't think enough to form any words for how good Asra's fingers circling slowly and then nudging just inside felt, so he settled on letting himself moan aloud as one finger became two stretching and curling to hit all the right spots. He heard himself gasp, “more,” and Asra chuckled and sounded just as pleased with himself as ever while working in a third finger and moving his hand back and forth. He leaned over Julian again and kissed his throat. Hands came off the floor and found Asra’s hair of their own will, curling into the soft locks. “Ready?”

“Mmmmhm.” Julian's thoughts were just as tangled as his hands were in Asra's hair, and he didn't process the question, because why should words really make any sense, until Asra ran a hand over his face, and kissed his eyelids, and held his gaze enough to remind him where he was. “Um, uh, yes.”

“Good, sweetness.” Asra kept one hand on Julian’s stomach in those few awkward moments of getting a bit more oil on his hand and his cock. Reassuring, steadying him somewhat as he tried to catch his breath, even as he could feel it getting heavier. Asra hitched one of Julian’s legs over his shoulder, kissed the inside of his thigh, and slipped his hand between Julian’s legs, fingers moving in small circles, pushing just enough to tease.

He hooked his other leg around Asra’s back. “Asra.” It’s a pleading whine, but he’s past the point of caring how he sounds. Asra pressed into him, just a bit, and leaned forward enough to stroke his cheek, watching his eyes carefully. Julian grabbed Asra’s bicep reflexively and used the leg wrapped around Asra’s back to pull him just a little closer, groaning as he stretched around Asra's cock.

Asra moaned and bit his lip, and his head dropped forward enough for the soft locks of his hair to brush - brush so sweet, so tantalizing against Julian's chest. Julian curled his fingers harder around Asra's arm and his leg tightened his leg around Asra's back, as Asra let himself be pulled in closer, in deeper, until Asra's hips pressed against his, and he's panting with his head thrown back and his eyes half-closed. He leaned a little closer, and the sight pressure of his body against cock tugged another pleasured whine from Julian's lips. He rolled his hips against Asra's in encouragement and won one of those cocky little grins as the magician pulled out and started to thrust, shallow and slow at first, then picking up, and even with his own closed, Julian can feel Asra's eyes on him, watching for a hint that he'd found a good angle.

“Stars, you're lovely.” Asra slid the hand that wasn't holding himself up between them and wrapped it around Julian's painfully hard cock, moving up, thumb pressing against the underside then moving around the head. “All spread out and flushed and moaning for me.” 

Julian gasped as Asra found the right motions inside and out. He raised himself up on his elbows, enough to find Asra's lips and tongue with his own before his head fell back again, and Asra's teeth were on his throat. “ _ Please _ .”

“It's okay, Ilya.” He drew his tongue up Julian's neck and back to his mouth. “You can come.”

Every muscle in his stomach and pelvis tightened, and Asra groaned as Julian clenched around him, falling forward and catching himself on his arms as Julian fell back panting onto the floor and spent himself between their chests and stomach. 

Asra's eyes were closed tight, and he held his lower lip between his teeth. “Ilya, s'okay if...” The question trails off into another gasp.

“Yeah. Yeah.” Julian’s arms were flung out to the side, and he swore that the rug beneath him was more lush and velvety than before. But he found the energy from somewhere to lift one hand and curl his hand around the back of Asra's neck. “You can. Go ahead.” 

Five fingernails dug into Julian's bicep as Asra thrust again, and Asra finished inside him with a muted cry. He moved a couple of times more, short and shallow, and collapsed onto Julian's chest, shaking and breathing hard. Julian caught his breath and wrapped both arms around Asra, one hand buried in the hair that still managed to be soft -  _ impossibly soft, everything about this is impossible _ \- even damp with sweat. He shifted around enough to kiss the top of Asra's head. Ran hands over his smooth back. Rub his shoulders and arms.

After a bit, their breathing slowed. Asra lifted himself up on his arms again and wiggled far enough up Julian's chest to kiss him again, all tenderness and sweetness. Julian rolled them both over, and cupped Asra's face in his hands, kissing the mouth that he was still  _ so hungry _ for. Down to the delicate hollow where a perfect throat met perfect collar bones. Even further to the absolute mess of his chest and belly. Asra permitted him a moment -  _ maybe two, maybe three _ \- hands winding tight into Julian's hair and making his scalp sting wonderfully. He tugged a little, promoting Julian to lift his face. “We should - should probably clean up a bit.”

“Mmmhm, maybe, I could, I mean, I don't mind.”

Asra ran a thumb over his cheek and his lips turned up into a slight, almost shy smile. “Let me clean you up.” He pushed Julian up, and they disentangled themselves, ending this time with Asra kneeling and Julian straddling his thighs. He did his magic trick again of extending an arm and summoning a towel to it, the added flourish of conjuring water into the fabric.  _ Show off. _ But his eyes were doting - doting enough that Julian thought he could die happy then and there - as he cleaned up Julian's face, wiped off his chest, and insides of his thighs. The towel got tossed back into a different pile, presumably things headed to the wash. He wrapped his hands around Julian's face and pulled him down into another long kiss, before repeating the same trick for himself.

“That's it.” Asra's voice sounded amused, and suddenly Julian heard the voices of past one or two night lovers dismissing him once they’d finished, sometimes with a kind word and a final kiss, other times with no more than rolling over and maybe a reminder to lock the door on the way out.

“What, did I, um, som - do something wrong?” He nearly inverts the word order, stress and sex muddling the languages in his head.

“No, no -” Asra's hands were back on his face, smoothing over his eyebrows and his mouth, soothing. “You were perfect. That's just all that I have the energy for, so - if you want - we can just roll into that pile of pillows and sleep. Cause I don't even feel like standing.”

The breath he was holding left Julian’s chest in a rush, and he laughed.  _ Damn, it felt good to just laugh. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummmm.... Yeah, I have no defense for myself. Either for writing teh smutz or for being stingy when doling teh smutz out.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	6. If This is Love, I’m Gonna Lose, There is No Doubt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Devotchka, ["The Common Good."](https://youtu.be/G9hJD-JLfyA)
> 
> If you haven’t read the prior parts of this series, an OC shows up in this chapter. Short version: She’s a friend of Dema’s who knows Julian from while he and Dema were working together. The section with her will make more sense in the context of these chapters: [Part 1, Chapter 2](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18609253/chapters/44392885); [Part 1, Chapter 7](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18609253/chapters/45295843); [Part 1, Chapter 12](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18609253/chapters/46296667); [Part 2, Chapter 1](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22230961/chapters/53081266); and [Part 2, Chapter 2](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22230961/chapters/53248294).
> 
> There’s a bonus math joke hidden in there. Because part of me will always be a geometry teacher now. Le sigh.

The sun in the library felt good -  _ especially _ good. Multi-colored light from the stained glass played across Asra’s face, making the afternoon perfect for sprawling on pillows and letting his mind wander while Nadi and Ilya talked over their aqueduct engineering plans. The ones that they had been working on for months. The ones that never really seemed to go anywhere, trapped in never-ending discussions about ideal placement for the reservoir and questions about how enough labor could possibly be located, much less paid for with the city’s coffers dwindling. Along with the occasional discussion of signs and co-signs that didn’t really sound like any kind of signs that Asra knew to look for when starting a venture. It all sounded very abstract to him. On the other hand, everything that Asra worked on seemed abstract to Ilya. A little less so to Nadi, but she appeared to be intent on not understanding what he really wanted to do.

“Julian, I am afraid that I just don’t think we can get any further. At least, not this afternoon.” 

Even at a conversational level, Nadia’s voice carried easily across the library, breaking into Asra’s daydreams. The colors around him burst into butterflies, or maybe moths, and dissipated into pinpricks of white light. He sat up and stretched, yawning and looking around for Faust. She was, rather predictably at this point, coiled around Ilya's neck, half-buried in the hair that he hadn't bothered to cut in months.

This time, instead of scowling, Asra just smiled.

Nadia perched on the edge of the table she and Ilya had their diagrams laid out on. She pinched the bridge of her nose, a sure sign that some irritant was about to cause a headache. "Really, Julian, even if I thought the money was there, do you really think Valerius can be convinced to take the time to run figures for us?"

"It  _ is _ his job."

"Who around here actually does their job?" She lifted a glass to her lips. It was only half-empty; either she hadn't drunk that much yet, or she'd poured herself a refill already. Or a second refill.

Asra climbed out of his nest and padded across the carpeted room. It was much too plush of a carpet to wear shoes. He wrapped his arms around Ilya's waist from behind -  _ he feels skinnier every day _ \- and kissed the back of his neck. Faust poked her head out to tongue his face, and Ilya sighed and closed one hand around Asra's.

"I'm trying to." He sounded defeated.

Crystal clinked against wood as Nadia set her glass down. "I know Julian, but at this point, it's like trying to save a ship that's already broken up."

Ilya's breath caught and the muscles in his back tensed. Asra tightened his arms around Ilya and shifted his own weight from foot to foot, not quite rocking him. Nadia didn't  _ know _ , but she caught that her metaphor had struck a nerve. Her pause was just a bit too long for a natural break in the conversation, then she coughed to clear her throat before speaking again. "It's too nice of an afternoon to stay inside. Let's go enjoy the gardens for a bit. Some sun may help all of us to clear our heads." 

Asra kept his arms around Ilya and whispered in his ear until he felt at least a little of the tension leave his body. Bad memories. They both had too many of those haunting their waking and sleeping hours. Nadi might sympathize, but Asra doubted that she could really empathize. Not through any fault of her own. Just a very different life. 

She was almost to the library door when Asra let go of Ilya and called back to her. "I have a quicker way." He'd created a portal between the library and the garden weeks ago when he was trying and failing to escape his own bad memories there. The other two followed him between two shelves and watched as he touched one of the carvings in the wall. Ilya jumped a bit when the portal opened, but Nadia just looked faintly impressed. 

Three servants were replacing spring plantings with summer ones. They looked up in surprise as the Countess and her two special friends appeared on the lawn from what appeared to be nowhere at all. One squeaked in dismay, and Nadi laughed. Amusement, not mockery; although, Asra feared that it might be taken as the second. 

"Don't fear, but if one of you would be so good as to fetch wine, I would appreciate it." Her lightweight skirts flared around her as she spun in the sunlight and paused to take off her high heeled shoes, dropping them carelessly to the side. If she didn’t collect them, someone else would. Collect them, and clean them, and return them to her dressing room.

Nadia grabbed her skirts and suddenly sprinted forward across the lawn, laughing loudly. Asra wiggled his toes in the cool grass. He couldn’t deny that it was  _ pleasant _ to be outside and to be in a _ pleasant  _ place. Even Ilya’s face lost a bit of its tension when Asra grabbed his hand and pulled them after Nadia.

Just as Ilya was lifting Faust into the higher branches of the willow tree, the discombobulated servants caught up with them at the fountain. One carried a tray of likely unnecessary glasses, and a second had anticipated the Countess’s current thirst and followed with two chilled bottles of the white wine she favored. She dismissed them, sending the glasses back as well, and sat on the edge of the fountain, drinking straight from one bottle and offering the other to Asra. He sipped from it and sat down behind Ilya, let his feet dangle over into the water, and snaked one arm around the man’s chest to toy with the shirt buttons that were mostly undone anyway.

“Back in Prakra, my sisters and I used to play in the fountains. There were actual pools for swimming of course, but it was more fun to do something that we knew we weren’t supposed to.” Nadia hiked up her skirt, tucked the loose end into her belt, and sunk her feet into the water with a sigh. “Mother would get so mad at us; Papa thought it was hilarious.” She actually smiled. She had never smiled before on the rare occasions when she talked about her family. “Of course, by the time Mama found out, he was usually in the fountain with us.” Nadia leaned over and trailed her fingers through the water, then smirked and sent a huge splash over Ilya and Asra. Ilya caught the brunt of it; ducked behind him, Asra was hardly even damp.

“Hey!” Ilya spluttered and pushed wet hair out of his face. Nadia batted her eyes innocently, tossed her own hair back over her shoulder, picked back up her wine bottle from the edge of the fountain, and lifted it to her lips. Ilya leaned over the edge, trying to scoop up as much water as possible, overbalanced, and toppled into the fountain before Asra could catch him. Nadia laughed again as he flung his arms out to the side and sat back up, sputtering. Ilya flicked water at her, then twisted around and grabbed Asra. He shrieked as Ilya pulled him into the fountain and into his lap. Another splash from Nadia cascaded over them, this time thoroughly drenching Asra. Ilya pulled him close and kissed him, wet hair sticking to each others’ faces.

Nadia was drinking again when Asra looked over to her. She still smiled though, when she set the bottle aside. “It’s good to see both of you happy. If only for a few minutes.” 

Ilya laughed and tucked Asra’s head under his chin, hugging him tightly and kissing his now flattened hair. A few minutes. If only.

* * *

Julian stopped going to his clinic in the weeks after Dema died. The guilt of abandoning it was more bearable than the memories that the space held for him. Artemis took over the space as a central location to do whatever little she could still do. He dropped by - every now and then - with whatever supplies he could manage to scavenge, or whenever Maz was able to smuggle a shipment of medicines into the city. And sometimes, when he just needed to talk to someone who was actually sane. There were about three people that he still trusted and of those, Artemis was the only one who was unambiguously sane.

Artemis sat him down near the fire with a cup of strong coffee and some sort of apple tart ( _ Where had she gotten something that fine? Even if it was a bit short on cinnamon. _ ) and informed him that he was still obviously not eating enough and that he had no excuses whatsoever since he was living at the palace. Only after he had polished off the coffee and the tart did she bother putting him to work, measuring out individual doses of various herbs with a scale and weights. Precision became more important as supplies got lower. Volume based estimates would no longer do.

He rambled while he worked. About how frustrated he was that Nadia seemed to have abandoned any interest in the plans they had been working on to improve the city infrastructure. How whatever permutation of the plague that Lucio had contracted didn’t seem to progress like any case he - or Nazali - had ever studied. How that seemed both cruel and kind, because he was still ill, still miserable, and maybe he deserved it, but Julian just couldn’t bring himself to hate the man or wish any suffering on him. How Asra had helped him figure out enough of Zadith’s language to read it with a dictionary at hand, but continued to laugh his head off at Julian’s attempts to pronounce anything. How he liked Asra’s laugh, so he kept trying anyway.

Artemis just listened as she went about her own work, nodding every now and then, or interjecting a small comment to let him know that she was paying attention to him. Until his rambles turned almost entirely to the subject of Asra. Then she sat down across the table from him and removed the tongs from his hand and the scale and tin of herbs from between them. Her dark eyebrows were drawn together over her exhausted eyes, and her lips were pressed into a thin line.

“So, you and Asra?”

“Um, yeah, uh, me and Asra.”

She picked back up the tongs and tapped them on the table. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m glad to hear that he laughs again. He hasn’t been the same since he came back. He’s never -” She fidgeted with the hair that had fallen out of her braid, tucking it back behind her ears. “Magic always seemed like a game for him. One that he was very, very good at, but still a game. Now - now maybe it’s still a game, but he’s playing for blood. Like he’s going to move the moon and stars, and nothing is going to stop him.” There was another long pause while she waited for the response that Julian didn’t know how to give.

He looked down at his hands. “I’m not scared of him. I care about him.”

Slight vibrations carried across the surface of the table accompanied by the rata-tat-tat of Artemis tapping the tongs. “He introduced me to my wife, you know. I was too scared to talk to her.”

Julian almost laughed. “You were scared to talk to someone?” He was smiling when he looked back at her. 

“Well, I was younger.” She pulled Julian’s hand across the table and covered it with both of hers, and her eyes became serious again. “Julian, listen to me. You love easily. Asra doesn't. He fights it.”

“I've figured out as much.” Julian glanced to the side and fidgeted with his shirt cuffs, avoiding Artemis’s gaze. She grabbed his arm and pulled one hand back to the table, tapping insistently on the back of his hand until he looked back at her.

“I don't want you getting hurt. Whatever he's trying now, it's consuming him.”

“What if I want the same thing he does?”

“At what cost, Julian? Just how much are you willing to give?”

“Artemis, it's not worth worrying about me.”

“Oh, Julian.” Artemis reached out and ruffled his hair. He grinned: she was one of the few people he knew who was tall enough to manage that without having to reach awkwardly or him having to bend his head down. Nazali might be the only other one. “You stupid boy. It doesn't work like that.” 

* * *

“I’m starting to get somewhere, I think.” Asra sliced an onion in half and peeled the skin from it. He trimmed off the stem end and sliced the bulb lengthwise before cross cutting to roughly dice it. It would decently flavor a kettle of soup that Muriel could space out over the next few days.

Muriel pulled the kettle of eggs from the fire and set it aside on the stone floor. He started working on slicing up the well-scrubbed carrots Asra had brought. Muri ate enough - at least, enough to maintain himself, but Asra didn't understand how he could endure a diet entirely based on foraging and eggs. Muri was good at foraging though. Asra thought he knew a lot about plants and their uses, but Muri put him to shame. He seemed to recognize every plant that could be exploited for food, what season to gather it, and how to prepare it. Some of the things he found were quite good. Other things Asra had only managed to swallow because he was really fucking hungry, and Muriel had never once made either of them sick with what he found.

Salt improved almost all of it though, so Asra made sure to bring at least a small amount with him each time he visited. And eel as often as he could, because Muriel loved it even if he’d never ask for it. Pumpkin bread, but the baker didn't have all the ingredients for that anymore, but he'd sold Asra two fresh loaves of simple wheat bread. Onions, garlic, and carrots had been available in the market this morning, and if Inanna was willing to share part of a kill, Asra could make something decent for him to eat over the next few days.

When he showed up, Muriel had looked over the basket and nodded. Inanna had brought him back a hindquarter of a deer last night, and he'd already hung for the blood to drain. That should do for meat and the bone for a broth. And he had a pile of lambsquarter and nettle that could be added.

But before the kettle was commandeered for soup, Muriel needed to boil eggs. He always sent Asra back to the city with an overflowing basket of hard-boiled eggs to hand out to the kids around the docks. Then he fretted that he hadn't sent enough because a single egg was a paltry meal, and he knew those children were hungry, and he had more eggs than he knew what to do with, and the bigger ones were probably crowding out the little kids, so there needed to be plenty, as many as Asra could manage to carry.

They chopped vegetables and Muriel hummed the tune that he used to judge the time the eggs needed in the cooling water to cook sufficiently. He claimed he didn't remember the words anymore, but Asra thought he caught Muriel singing them once. Very softly. When he thought that Asra was sound asleep and Inanna was the only one who would hear him.

Asra sighed when Muriel stepped outside and poured off the water and transferred the eggs to the now empty basket. He hadn't had the heart to tell Muriel that there were so few street kids left alive that he was almost always able to give each child two or three eggs apiece now. 

"What do you mean by getting somewhere?" Muriel brought the kettle - now filled with fresh water - in and set it back over the fire. He'd skinned and broken down the deer's leg already. It went into the pot with a little bit of salt.

"With my research." Asra reminded himself to bring Muriel a frying pan like he had intended to and forgotten a thousand times before. This soup would be much, much better if he could saute the onions, garlic, and carrots first. But still, it would do. "I think I'm just to get the right pieces and parts from the right books."

"Asra..."

"I know, I know you don't approve, but Muri... This time I can fix something." He'd never been able to do that before when things went wrong. He'd been too small, too weak to change things, to make what he wanted become real. But now was different.

"I don't think you fully understand the powers you're messing with."

"And you do?"

Muriel collected the diced carrots in his hands and dropped them into the kettle. "I understand not to touch a burning fire."

"This is different. I  _ need _ her back." His eyes were only watering from the onions. Just from the onions. “I'm being careful, really.”

"Mhm." Muri used his knife to transfer the onions from the table. "I know you miss her, Asra. I know if feels like one more blow when you already couldn't take any more, but -"

"But what?"

"Some things can't be fixed. Sometimes you just have to live with the past."

"How would you know?" Asra can't keep the bitterness out of his voice. “You just ran away.” When Muriel froze in the ring and dropped the sword that he was holding over a wolf’s lowered head, fear was the first emotion that had seized Asra’s body, tightening each muscle and twisting his stomach. When he knelt and ran his hand over the wolf’s head, Faust had been the only thing holding Asra together. This, this would be the end. When Muriel and the wolf walked out of the stadium, when no one stopped him, that tension nearly exploded from him in a cheer. But when Muriel walked right past him without stopping, the cheer turned into tears because Muriel was walking away from him. Tears that he had gathered up and frozen into ice and buried deep inside herself. 

And now, Muriel froze again.

Asra started to apologize, that he shouldn't have said it, to claim that he didn't mean it, but he was tangled in so many lies already that he just couldn't deal with telling another one. Not even one trying to be kinder. Muriel doesn't turn around. He takes a long wooden spoon from a hook on the wall and pokes at the contents of the kettle.

"Remember to take the eggs when you go, Asra. I'll have more next time."

* * *

_ Desperate men do desperate things.  _

Asra didn’t like it, but Julian hadn’t completely cut Lucio off. He couldn’t, not when Lu didn’t seem to care to let any of the other various physicians in the palace near him, especially now that he was actually ill. And the man was so sad, whether he’d admit it or not. Valerius and Julian were about the only two people he was able to stomach for longer than a fraction of an hour, and Lu had never been one to demand more than someone was willing to give, at least where sex was concerned, so Julian never got more than a wistful look after he said no, that was over now.

But Lucio was an increasingly desperate man. And somehow he had gotten it into his head that with the right magic, the right combination of spells and powers, that he could demand a new body from the universe. One that was strong and healthy and young and whole. Maybe he even thought it would come with some opportunity to undo the past. He slipped on occasion, when he was deep in his drinks or an opium fog, and confessed all his sins and regrets. Then he’d be right back to ranting about the incompetence of everyone around him, just in case Julian forgot for a moment that Lu was still Lu.

His fixation on Asra continued to grow. If science - not that Julian really considered anything Valdemar oversaw in the dungeons science - wasn’t going to work, then it would have to be magic. And Asra was clearly powerful. With parents like that, he had to be. Maybe things would be better if he hadn’t gotten rid of them, but he hadn’t had a choice, it’s not that he wanted to, he had been told to, and he couldn’t defy -  _ really, Jules, believe me. _ Asra needed to just stop dicking around in the library and napping all the damn time. Certainly, he could figure it out.

Meanwhile, Asra maintained his typical enigmatic distance, breaking it only to poke at the fractures in Lucio’s aggrandized ego when the opportunity arose, then retreating back again. Julian could redirect Lu’s irritation in some cases, reframe it in others, and overall, he tried to downplay what Asra might be capable of, framing him as someone who largely hung about the palace to entertain Nadia.

It worked less and less each day, and Julian was beginning to run out of misdirection tactics.

Smoke filled the shop when Julian let himself in and, for a moment, he worried that Asra had set something on fire that shouldn’t be on fire. But the smoke was sweet smelling. Incense. Just a frightfully absurd amount of it.

“Asra?” He pushed past the curtain that screened the back room from the front of the shop. He’d never seen the backroom set up like this before. All the various cushions and pillows had been pushed to the side, leaving the low table centered in an open space. Incense burned in each of the four corners of the room, obscuring his vision of the shelves with all the knicknacks and curiosities and that skull.

Asra knelt at the table with Faust draped around his neck. He’d drawn some design on the polished surface with chalk and arranged a motley collection of crystals, and bones, and other curious things. Candles burned at four points Julian thought were the cardinal directions, albeit it was a little hard to be certain indoors. “Asra?” He looked up from the table. Behind his curling white hairs, his eyes weren’t quite focused. His pupils were wide - dilated beyond what could be explained by low light.

“Ilya.” His voice sounded hollow and distant. “I think I might have if figured out. What I may need to give.”

Figured it out.  _ It. _ That thing, that goal that they talked about frequently but so rarely named. “Asra, what are you -” Julian knelt at the side of the table opposite of him. Between the heat and the smoke the room was suffocating. “How will this -?” 

“I wonder just how much you’re willing to give, Ilya.”

“For -” He glances around the room. The wall hangings were the same as even. They had to be, but they look so foreign now.  _ Are the designs on them moving? That must be just a trick of the light. _ “Anything. All of me. You know that.”

Asra’s eyes were still dilated when he looked back, and he didn’t look quite like Asra. Not like Asra sober, not like Asra drunk, something else entirely.

“Oh Ilya, I don’t need all of you. Just your hand.”

He bit his bottom lip. Hard. But the moment of pain and the tang of blood didn’t cause everything around him to fade away. Not a dream then. He extended his hand across the table. Asra took it and turned it over, palm up. He lifted a tiny, ceremonial knife from the table. There was a name for that.  _ What was it?  _ Julian hissed as Asra slashed across his palm with a measured gesture. Not deep. Just enough to draw blood. He moved Julian’s hand around the table, tilting it at each of the ordinal points to let a little of the blood spill. Then he pulled Julian’s hand back to his side of the table and leaned over. The cut stung as Asra licked it. Then he let go. 

Julian held his hand over the table, unsure if he should pull it back to him, or if that would mess something up in whatever spell Asra was weaving. Maybe he should in that case. “What will that do?”

Asra rose nonchalantly from the floor and stepped around the table. He lifted Julian’s hand and leaned over, pressing his lips to the bloodied knuckles. “Maybe nothing.”

“And that’s all?”

This time, Asra ran his thumb over the cut, and the stinging touch was followed by a simultaneously warm and cool sensation as the flesh knit back together. “What, Ilya?” His hand found Julian’s chin and tilted his face up, smearing blood on his lips. “Did you want me to hurt you more?”

The question had no mischief in it. No joke. Nothing that actually sounded like Asra. Julian clutched Asra’s hip with his other hand and let his hand fall against the magician’s stomach. “Asra -” His fingers ran through Ilya’s hair. Tenderly even. Maybe. Julian hoped so.

“I can’t give you what you want, Ilya.” He sounded sad when he spoke, and for the first time since Julian walked in, like himself.

Julian looked up. The expression in Asra’s eyes was still not quite there, but at least they were focused now. On him. And Asra was behind them now, not the intense nothingness of a moment ago. “I’ll take what I can get.” Warm fingers brush over his face, lingering on his cheekbones and lips.

_ Something _ happened.

Julian didn’t know what it was or how to explain it, but the patterns in the carpets and the hangings were  _ definitely _ moving now. A gust of wind circled through the room, hard enough to knock Julian back on the floor. But the candles didn’t even flicker and the smoke from the incense didn’t seem to move at all. Above him the exposed rafters begin to warp and weave like waves on a stormy sea, the kind of storm that even the most experienced sailors worry about. Julian tried to push himself up on his elbows only to be thrown back again by a frigid pulse of air. The shadows in the corner of the room began to creep out into the candle light. He laughed a bit at that, because they look a bit like the tentacles of an octopus at first.  _ And how is he actually supposed to respond to something like that? _ Then the shadows thickened and resolved into elongated, humanoid arms, and Julian’s stomach twisted in on itself and crashed back like it just took a punch in a bar brawl. 

Asra stood perfectly in the middle of everything. His clothes and hair should have been whipping around from the wind, but they hung loose about him. A faint gold light radiated where his skin was exposed, and it should have been warm like his skin, like his hands, but the light was cold and metallic. Julian managed to get upright enough to see his eyes. Luminous, sparkling amethyst. Entirely amethyst.

_ Is that a voice? _ It’s low and slow and spoke words that Julian had never heard before - if there were even distinct words to be pulled out, cadences following a pattern of rises and falls that seemed less than or more than human or maybe a bit of both. The bits of bone rose from the table, spinning in the air as the shadow hands - nearly solid now - curved around them and moved them closer and further apart, like a potter working clay on a wheel. The voice continued, maybe joined by another, one that keened high and steady and painfully, and - 

“ _ Violet. _ ” The word was a gasp that Julian nearly swallowed, and it surprised him that Asra actually heard it. Heard it and automatically swiped his hand through the chalked design on the table. Everything paused. The shadows, the smoke, the drafts that shouldn’t be there, the warping on the walls and floor and ceiling. Then it all dropped away, and Asra was kneeling in beside him, hands hovering beside his shoulders, holding back on touching. 

“Ilya, Ilya, I’m sorry, sorry, are you . . .? Can I . . . ?” 

Julian heard himself moan as he slumped onto Asra, head against his shoulder, all his weight on him. Asra’s arms folded tight around him, hands still on his back, then rubbing small circles. “I’m sorry, Ilya. I’m so sorry. It’s done. It’s over. I won’t try that again. Not with you.”

“Don’t at all try that again.”

“Shh... shhh... just breathe.”

Julian let himself sink against Asra and tried to match his own breaths to Asra’s steady ones. Asra ran his hands over Ilya’s back and arms, and whispered endearments in his ear. Faust’s cool weight joined, circling steadily around their shoulders. Slowly his chest stopped heaving with sobs. Asra pushed his face back, stroked his hair, and caressed his cheekbones.

“Can you get up? We can go upstairs.”

“I, um -” He braced himself on Asra’s shoulders and got to his feet. The lingering shakes probably weren’t enough that he was going to fall. “Yeah, that, let’s go.”

Asra rose and wrapped an arm around his waist, helping to keep him upright. “I’ve got you, love. Take it slowly.”

_ Love.  _ Asra hadn’t called him that before.

They made it up the steps and past the curtain into the bedroom. Asra lowered him onto the bed, wrapped a blanket tightly around his shoulders, and knelt in the floor to undo the fastenings of his boots. Same sheets, same blankets, same pillows. Nothing in this room had really changed.

“You never started sleeping up here.”

“No,” Asra answered with his head down. He pulled the left boot off, then the right and set them aside. “I never did.” His fingers kneaded Ilya’s thighs, and he pressed his head against Ilya’s knee. “Are you okay for a minute with Faust? I’ll get you some water.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.” He laid down on his side and found a pillow, wrapped his arms around it, and buried his face in the soft fabric. Faust settled next to him, touching her tongue gently to his cheek and his nose. If he just concentrated on keeping his breathing steady, he wouldn’t have to think too much.

Asra’s weight settled on the mattress beside him. “Here. Sit up for me. I brought tea and water both.”

“Tea.” Ilya rolled up and looped an arm around his knees. “Please.”

Asra put a warm mug in his hand and set the glass of water on the side table. “It’s left over, but I heated it up. Put honey in it.”

Julian’s sipped it carefully, then almost choked. “It’s sweet.”

“A lot of honey. I thought you could use it.”

“Yeah, yeah, probably.” He balanced his hand on his free hand. “Probably.”

Asra rubbed Julian’s calf, pressure from his fingers light and soothing. “I’m sorry, Ilya, I shouldn’t have -”

“You stopped.” He drank most of the tea in a single gulp and set the mug aside. “You did stop.” 

Asra patted his knee, then laid down with one arm extended “Come here.”

Julian shifted until he could lay his head on Asra’s chest. Asra’s fingers smoothed into his hair and massaged his scalp, and just being held was enough to make Julian want to cry again, because he felt safe, and maybe he shouldn't, because nothing and no one was safe, and everyone was desperate and going mad. But right now things felt still, even if they wouldn't for long. Because they never felt still for long. Not for him. Probably not for anyone.

He did cry. All the grief, and anxiety, and frustration, and loss of the past year bubbling out of him in shaking sobs. And this time - unlike all the other times - he wasn’t intoxicated from alcohol or some other drug. And Asra is warm and solid all around him, and the bed smells of cedar, and rosemary and sandalwood, and everything he had associated with safety, with being loved. 

“Thank you,” Ilya murmured. 

“Hmm?”

“For, uh, calming me down.”

“I’m the one who upset you in the first place.”

“Still...” Ilya is quiet for a moment. “If your plan works - no, when your plan works, and you've got her back I, um, know someone who can get you out of the city. Get the both of you away from here.”

“What about you?”

“She loves you. You two can be happy. My place is here with everything else that's falling apart.”

“Ilya -”

“No, don't. Just, will you hold me a little longer, please, Asra?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you find the math joke?
> 
> Shit's about to get real guys.


	7. The Fear Has Gripped Me, but Here I Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: The second part of this gets into some dubcon territory. If you’ve played through all of Julian’s route, I have one word of warning for you. Beetle. Skip at the linebreak and see endnote if needed.
> 
> Chapter title from Alt-J, ['Breezeblocks'](https://youtu.be/rVeMiVU77wo). The runner up was Frou Frou, ["Psychobabble."](https://youtu.be/B5bul5HwCQY)

_ CW: The second part of this gets into some dubcon territory.  _

Much to Asra’s amusement, Ilya was the one napping in the library  _ this time _ . He fell asleep with his face in an open book and hadn’t woken when Asra lifted his head to replace the unfortunate book with a smaller pillow from his nest. Then he pulled Ilya’s hair back from his face and tied it with a bit of ribbon. He was supposed to remind Ilya to cut it, but he kept  _ forgetting _ because he rather liked it long and curling around Ilya’s collar.

He also liked watching Ilya sleep even though he was sprawled awkwardly over a desk because the man never slept enough. The dark circles around his eyes were forever getting worse, and no matter how much coffee he pumped himself full off, he’d lose his concentration at intervals and have to shake himself out of it. That was happening more and more frequently.

Ilya mumbled something incoherent. Asra leaned over him, ran his hands over his shoulders -  _ very lightly, don’t want to wake him _ \- and kissed the top of his head. He rubbed his shoulders a bit more because he seemed like he was deep enough asleep to not be woken by it and stroked his hair one more time. It was already coming loose from the ribbon.

Asra went back to his own pile of cushions and reclined on his side with one of the books he had found hidden in a dark corner of the library open in front of him, with bits of paper and a pencil for making notes. The book was dusty and ancient, and the cover was made of some sort of pale leather, the origin of which Asra did not particularly want to know. In a way, it was beautiful. Carefully draw diagrams accompanied descriptions of spells written in a tiny curling hand. Every page was brightly illuminated with expensive inks and gilded with precious metals that corresponded to the elements. Offered to a collector, it would fetch a fortune. Offered to a buyer who knew magic, it would fetch enough to set someone up for one lifetime. Maybe two.

The contents of the book were no less rare or valuable. Spells most magicians would consider forbidden: love spells to overwhelm and override any desire or lack thereof on the part of the object, infliction of misfortune that surpassed any stories of the eye evil, the attraction and binding of spirits and powers, methods to reach realms deeper and darker realms than those occupied by the Arcana, reanimation of deceased corpses to serve the whims of the sorcerer. The spell he’d attempted the other night was one from this book. Just one for communication with the dead. He’d thought it was simple enough, safe enough. 

And then he tried it.

He should hide the book again.

_ Or burn it. _

He hummed a melody to himself - a simple counting song from when he was very little, painfully incongruous with the content in front of him - and stroked Faust’s head. She darted underneath a convenient pillow to hide, and when he glanced up from the pages, he noticed the sharply pointed boots in front of him. Smart girl. If only he could fit under a pillow to hide.

Valdemar over him seeming impossibly tall. Asra was slightly impressed with himself when he didn’t shudder at the sight. The Quaestor elicited a tremble from Nadia, and anyone else, whenever they appeared. And not even Nadia seemed to be able to get rid of them.  _ Maybe something in the book could do the trick. _

Their gloved hands were folded in front of their waist, and as usual, there was no expression on their face as Asra slowly got to his feet, trying to maintain a calm demeanor and not betray any surprise or fear on his part.  _ They can smell that sort of thing. _ Their height didn’t seem quite as impressive once he was on his feet, but he was still dwarfed, especially once their horn-like headdress - he suspected there were actual horns underneath - was taken into account. It wouldn’t shock him if they were one of the types of revenants described in the tome.

“Quaestor.”

“Magician.” Their eyes didn’t blink, even when the pause in conversation began to charge the air with static tension.

“Can I help you with something?” Asra knew that one of the entrances to Valdemar’s domain under the palace was located in the library. He’d seen Ilya stagger out of it often enough, but he’d never seen Valdemar use it before.

“I think it is quite the opposite, Asra.”

He wanted to shiver when they said his name. Shiver and hide under a blanket until they were gone. Maybe he did shiver. He certainly felt cold, even if the summer solstice was barely a week past.

“And what do you think that you can help me with?”

“You are getting close, are you not?”

“Close to what?”

“Your very _ specific _ cure.”

Asra almost kicked the book aside. With any luck, Valdemar wouldn’t have noticed it yet. It would only confirm their accusation. “What are you talking about?”

Red eyes flicked to the book for a moment. No luck then. “But not quite there. Even that grimoire, dark and powerful as it may be, is not quite enough. I can help that.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“But you need it.” The position of their hands changed too fast for a human eye to catch, and then they were extending a small codex to Asra. A clasp that looks like fingerbones wired together holds the small volume closed, and it was bound with the same uncannily textured leather as the other book Asra had been working with. 

“Few enough copies of the one you are studying remain. The same necromancer composed this. It is the only copy. In their own hand, no less.”

Necromancer. Asra had tried very hard to keep that word out of his vocabulary, even though in the wordless parts of his mind he knew that it was accurate. He stared at the book. His head told him not to take it, and his hands made a gesture to ward off evil on their own, but his heart started to beat loudly in his chest, to assert its own yearning, its own lust. And ultimately the heart is stronger than the head, and the hands are merely servants of the heart.

He snatched the book from the monster in front of him.  _ Is it warm? It feels warm. Like living skin _ .

“Someone clever as you should have no trouble.” Their hands were folded in front of them again, and they smiled with teeth that were too sharp and met too perfectly to be mistaken for human. The kind of teeth made for ripping flesh from bone. “But should you wish further assistance, don’t hesitate to ask us. Until we meet again, Thaumaturge, I’ve other diversions at present.”

They were gone before Asra could let go of the breath he held tight in his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he could just see the hidden door swinging shut before them, but he hadn’t seen them move or open it. A jag in his own perception of time? Or movement too fast for the eye? Who knew.

The book pulsed in his hands, rhythm approximating a human heartbeat. And when he looked closely, he saw fine veins running over the surface giving the pale leather a fine, bluish cast. Blood underneath skin. Would it bleed red if he stabbed a knife through it? The clasp  _ was _ fingerbones. Ones taken from a very small human hand and pieced back together with gold wire.

He should  _ definitely _ burn it.

Or not. That might release what it contained with no controls at all.

Encase it in lead and cast it into the middle of the sea.

But, what if . . .?

Each individual finger of the clasp had to be manipulated open separately, joint by joint. They fought him as though there were still muscles attached to resist and a mind that hadn’t yet decided whether he was worthy to access the contents. When only the little finger was left, a warm, living hand closed around his shoulder.  _ Ilya. _

“You can’t possibly be thinking of using that.”

Asra tried to tear his eyes away from the text. It took effort to do so as though the book had somehow chained his attention. When he freed himself and could look back over his shoulder, Ilya’s brows were furrowed, and the circles under his eyes looked even darker than before. Distress. Fear.

“It may have what I need.”

“You - Asra -” Ilya grabbed both his shoulders and spun him around. “You can’t take anything from Valdemar. You don’t know what they are.”  
“And you know?”

“Asra -” Ilya pushed both hands through Asra’s hair and cupped his face. “I - what they are I don’t - but what they do - that I _ know _ . You  _ can’t _ .” 

“Ilya -” Ilya’s fingertips ran over his cheeks as Asra took a step back. He nearly tripped over one of the pillows on the floor. “I have to. I’m - I’m desperate.”

“Find another way!” Ilya flung his hands out to the side. “Nothing is worth taking any help they’re offering.”

“ _ This is. _ ”

“No.” Ilya shook his head. His hands moved to his face and fingers hid one of his eyes as his speech dropped almost low enough to be indistinct. “No. Not even  _ this _ .”

“You can’t mean that.”

Ilya’s hands slid down enough for him to look at Asra over them. His eyes were bloodshot. He needed more sleep. “I mean it.” His hands dropped back to his side, began to tremble, and clenched into fists. “Find another way. Or, or -” A choked sob left his lips. “Give it up. You're going mad. Please, I know you don’t want to, but believe me.” 

“Don't call me mad,” Asra snapped and took another step back from Ilya.

“Asra, we're all going mad.” Ilya laughed, but it sounded like a sob. “Please, we'll get rid of that thing. And you can keep looking. Another way. But not this one.”

“I don't think there is one.”

“Then we just get rid of the damn thing and -”

“And what?” 

Ilya’s eyes lost contact with Asra’s, and he shook his head slowly. “And we figure out how to move on, Asra. Like everyone else.” Tears started to form in his eyes, and Asra didn't want him to cry, not more, not now. If this were a fairy tale, Ilya would have cried enough tears to bring the entire city back to life, but this isn't a fairy tale, and all Ilya's empathy and pain hadn't accomplished anything.

But Asra can.  _ Thaumaturge.  _ He only needed to know to work the miracle.

Asra clutched the book to his chest and turned his back on Ilya.  _ Was his heart starting to beat in time with its pulses? _ He needed it. He had to have it. He  _ had _ to fix this. He  _ could _ fix this. This time wouldn’t be like the past. Not like all the times that he had been helpless to make things right. This time, he had power - held the knowledge in his hands. “But I'm not like everyone else.” 

“Please. Listen to me.” Ilya's hands were on his shoulders again. They were still shaking.

Ilya had sailed enough of the seas. He knew people with ships. Asra could toss the book aside, let Ilya take it - because if Asra picked it up again, he’d never let it go. Take it and solder it into a lead box and drop it into water deep enough that it would never be found. Never tempt anyone again. 

But Asra had already bit into that fruit and swallowed.  _ Or is it the other way around. _ Asra jerked himself away from Ilya’s hands and knelt down on the floor. He shoved his notes, the first grimoire and the quivering, uncanny book into his bag, and slung it over his shoulder. “Faust.” She slithered out from where she had hidden, raised her head, and looked back and forth from Asra to Ilya, tongue anxiously flicking at the space between them. “We're leaving. You can give up if you want, Ilya.” Faust crawled into his clothes; although, he could feel her poking her head from the back of his shirt to look at Ilya.

“Great, Asra.  _ Perfect! _ Just run the fuck away again.”

Asra stopped and turned on his heel, the loose fabric of his tunic spinning around him. “I am  _ not  _ running away,” he hissed. “I am going to fix this. I am going to get her back.”

Ilya's only response was to shake his head and turn anyway himself. His shoulders shook. Violently. Painfully. The afternoon sun lit him from behind like a prophet standing unburnt in the midst of a fire.

Asra left. 

Again.

* * *

Julian waited until he heard the door shut behind Asra, trembling the entire time. Fear? Anger? He wasn’t quite certain. Anger, maybe because he desperately wanted to punch something, but the walls that weren’t covered in books were stone, and he’d always been averse to breaking his hands. 

When he left the library, he meant to go into the city, down to the docks, to the sketchiest looking bar, with the worst alcohol that he could find. Sit, and drink, and wait for the inevitable fight to begin so that he could jump into it. Less chance of broken knuckles, plenty of chance for enough bruises and minor cuts to keep him distracted for a few days. And if a fight didn’t begin, well, there were always ways to start one. He’d been banned from a couple of the dockside bars already.  _ What’s one more? _ He’d be dead soon enough. The entire city would be dead soon enough.

Somehow though, his feet carried him up the stairs that led to Lucio’s wing. He told himself that this was a good thing. He was just going to go collect Brundle and do something positive - healthy even - to blow off steam. Like take her out for a walk in the garden and a nice game of fetch on the lawn. Yes, that was wise. Quick check-in on Lu, whose condition probably hadn’t changed much, if at all. Then a nice walk in the gardens.

He almost had himself convinced that he intended a harmless stroll with a grumpy hound dog. Then he threw open the door to Lucio’s room, and all the rage broke back through the more reasonable part of his mind. He punched one of the upholstered walls. Oops.  _ Well, at least waiting for a softer wall had been a good idea. _

“Jules? What is it?”

Lucio and Valerius sat in the bed, a chessboard in between them. The consul was the only person that Lucio would play chess with anymore. He said that anyone else was too easy to beat, and for once, it wasn’t an empty brag. Lu  _ was _ wicked good at chess. Less so with cards, his face gave too much away.

“I -” Julian stopped and leaned against the wall, trying to let his breath and his thoughts catch up with him.

All three dogs focused on him. Mercedes and Melchior wagged their tails because much like their master they enjoyed the fact that Julian was almost always free with his attention. Brundle looked worried. She trotted over to bump his legs and jump up with her paws on his waist for the reassurance of a good head rub and ear scritching. Valerius lifted his eyebrows, tossed back his wine, and stood up, smoothing his robes. “I’ll just come back later.” He brushed past Julian like he didn’t actually exist, flipping his long braid back over his shoulder.

Julian waited until Valerius was gone then collapsed on the slick, horsehair sofa and rummaged through the bottom drawer of the well-stocked cabinet beside it for the opium and various pieces of paraphernalia kept there. Brundle huffed judgmentally, then curled up at his feet. As Julian lit the lamp with a striker, Lucio toppled the chess set to the floor. Someone else would pick it up. The sofa dipped when he sat down beside Julian.

“What’s wrong, Puppy?”

Lucio was wrapped tight in a heavy silk robe, and he wasn’t wearing his prosthetic. It must have been hurting him again. That was happening more and more frequently as his tolerance to the drugs built up and the plague wreaked havoc on his circulation. Still it took quite a bit of pain before Lucio was willing to let anyone - even Julian or Valerius - see him without it. He hooked the stump of his left arm over the back of the sofa and folded one leg under him.

“Asra.”  _ Why’d I say that name? Here of all places. _

Lu’s pale eyebrows arched. He hadn’t even filled them in. Today must be particularly bad then. “Oh?”

Julian filled the pipe and cleaned the last bits of tar off his fingers on his shirt. “He’s gone mad.” He held the bowl over the lamp, waiting for the cursed, blessed substance to heat. 

“He wasn’t already?”

Julian actually cackled. Of course, Asra was already mad. He had to be mad to think that he could bring someone back from the dead. But Julian wants the same thing. He was more than a little mad himself. Maybe they all were mad. He lifted the pipe to his lips and inhaled deeply sighing as the first wave hit him.

“Pass that here, Jules.”

He took another greedy drag on the pipe, then handed it over when Lu coughed impatiently. “There’s madness. Then there’s making deals with the darkest of creatures.”

Lu was uncharacteristically silent, and when Julian turned to look at him, his expression was strangely distant, even accounting for the drugs. “Yes, yes, there’s a difference.” He puffed on the pipe and passed it back to Julian. “Found one of your few and far between limits, eh?”

It’s a weak joke, but Julian laughed anyway because it was frightfully accurate. He bent over and took off his boots while Lu took another turn with the pipe. Then after taking his own turn, he swung his feet up on the sofa between them, vaguely aware that he was one of two people who could get away with something like that. He’s not even really surprised when Lu pulls his feet into his lap and runs his fingers over the top of one, tracing the faded lines of an ill-advised tattoo from years ago. Lu did have moments like this, when his own cravings for simple affection reversed, and he was as willing to give as to take. Until his mood changed at least. 

“What do you need, Puppy?”

What did he need? Lots of things. A way to turn back a clock enough to tell her to leave with Asra. For Nazali to show up somehow and rescue him - again - from this entire mess. For Valdemar to spontaneously combust. To get in the small boat Mazelinka ran between her ship and the hidden cove by the city and to leave everything behind. To discover a way to snap Asra out of this madness. Those things weren’t possible. So another puff or two of the opium pipe would have to do.

“I need my mind to be blank.”

“Do you?” Lucio’s hand began to run up his calf, and he didn’t say stop or no. Lu would respect if he did - Julian still believed that, but without those words, Lu continued the caress. “And do you want my help with that?”

Julian hated himself a little as he nodded, but his head moved anyway, as if the muscles had a will of their own, and his better judgment was unable to overrule it. Lu’s mouth met his own as he leaned over. The kiss was brief, almost sweet, then Lu nudged Julian’s feet out of his lap and patted the space beside him. “Come here, Puppy. Lay down, you’ve had a rough day.”

Julian set the pipe aside, back on the lamp to heat again. His limbs felt heavy - as heavy as if he was underwater - while he rearranged himself on the sofa, laid his head in Lucio’s lap, closed his eyes and allowed the Count to smooth his hair and stroke his face. If he kept them closed, perhaps all of this would have been a dream, and when he woke it would be years ago -  _ Ten? Eleven? I lost track. _ \- in a camp tent that had seemed so splendid then. Would he like that? Perhaps. Or perhaps not.  _ Not if I remember all of the dream, no. I’d never be happy then.  _ But if he somehow forgot it all. Perhaps then he could be content just to take some other path.

“You were always idealistic, Jules. Too good for the world.”

Julian didn’t believe it. He’s not good.  _ Probably never was. Certainly not now. _ But hearing the words spoken let at least a little of the tension dissipate from his chest. Lu’s fingers brushed over his lips, and he let his mouth fall open, let those fingertips slip inside, over his tongue, closed his lips around them

“Good boy.” Lu pulled his fingers free, then ran the back of his hand over Julian’s jaw. He leaned into the caress, then rolled and sat up, leaning in until he could get a proper kiss, a long one, the kind that ate up all the space in your mind. Even now, Lu was handsome, and Julian always thought he looked better without the layers of eye makeup and with his hair free around his face. The barest touch on the back of his head pulled Julian close to straddle one of Lu’s legs and lean over him. His hand moves down Julian’s back and begins tugging his shirttail free and undoing the fastenings of his trousers.

It was quick. Not rough exactly, more orders and praise when Julian quickly obeyed, because that was what he wanted, after all, to abandon his own will for a bit, and all the decisions and responsibility that went along with autonomy. A bite or two that were harder than most people cared to give or receive. No restraints, which he would have dearly loved, just to drive the surrendering of will home, but Lucio would have had to put his prosthetic back on before he could tie any knots. 

And after, Lu pulled them into the all too large bed, wrapped his arm around Julian, and nuzzled the back of his neck, because he knew Julian craved affection as much if not more than anything else, and he had always been indulgent with Julian’s cravings. Julian had just ignored that it was the same way you would indulge a lapdog - after he had figured that part out.

“What had you so upset, Puppy?”

“He, um, Asra, took something. From Valdemar.”

“Mmm...” Lu’s fingers stroked his hair. “That would upset you, wouldn’t it? Speaking of our pointy-headed friend, are they getting anywhere with that chamber of horrors of theirs?”

Lu’s hand running over his shoulder wasn’t enough to repress Julian’s shudder. And that was definitely something he wanted blacked out of his mind. “Don’t they report to you?”

“Yes, but you see, I’m just not sure how much I can trust them.”

“I think they’re, um, too caught in the process of cutting people up to have an actual goal.”  _ You should get rid of them. Please, if there’s one thing you’ll indulge me in, let it be that. _

“They do tell me the most interesting things about our little magician friend.” Lu tugged on his shoulder, and Julian rolled over onto his back. Lucio sat up and the silk sheets cascaded around him.

“Do they?” Julian tried to keep his voice neutral.  _ How long had that monster been interested in Asra?  _

“Yes.” Lucio trailed his fingers along Julian’s chest. “This research of his. Apparently there is something to it. He’s not just the entertaining and pretty little fool that you and Nadia would have me believe.”

“It’s, um, folly. Just a pipe dream.”  
“I don’t think so, Jules.” His fingers continued to move, up and down, then over Julian’s face. “I always did like your nose. So distinctive.” The count leans over and kisses the corner of his mouth. “And these pretty lips.”

“Listen, Lu, all of this, everything it’s -”

He was about to say madness, but Lucio pressed a finger to his lips. “Ah, ah, ah . . . I hear that the magician has a very specific goal in mind. And one that I share. Something  _ you _ couldn’t ever do for me. Create a body to replace one that has been destroyed.”

“Lu, it can’t be done. It shouldn’t be done!”

“Shouldn’t be?” Lucio’s hand presses down on his throat. “So Valdemar is near a cure then? I shouldn’t consider all of my options?”

Julian didn’t say anything. He couldn’t say anything, not with Lucio’s hand on his neck. The fingers pulled away for a moment, just long enough for him to gasp out a pathetic sounding “please.” Then, with a single feline movement, Lucio straddled him with his knees on Julian’s arms, pinning him to the bed.

“What are you -”

“Shhh... shh... shh.... Calm down, Jules.” He held out his hand and a beetle landed on it. Lucio smirked. “They come when I call now. The damned things.” The beetle remained as his fingers drifted back to Julian’s mouth and touched his lower lip. It’s proboscis tickled, and Julian almost giggled. Until the seriousness in Lucio’s eyes silenced him again. “One way or another, I’ll have my cure. I think you and the magician might just need a bit of motivation.” 

A phantom hand closed around Julian’s throat. There had to be fingers pressing at his larynx. Why else couldn’t he speak? His arms were pinned, but his legs were still free, and Lu was nowhere near as strong as he used to be. Julian could probably get himself free -  _ if he wanted to _ . There wouldn’t be too much that Lu could do about it. Even if he yelled for the guards, Julian was fairly confident that he could outrun any of them.

“You always have a choice, Jules.” Lucio’s voice shouldn’t be soothing. That shouldn’t be battling against his growing panic. “I can send my guards out, have them knock your precious magician on the back of his head, bring him here, and force this down his throat. Or you can be a good boy and  _ open your mouth _ .”

With his eyes closed tight, the only thing Julian saw was Asra with bloodshot sclera and swollen joints going purple then black from hematomas. 

And so, he opened his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second half summary: Julian ends up in Lucio's bedroom because he has no healthy coping skills. Lucio is aware of what Asra is up to. Manipulates Julian into eating a plague beetle after threatening to force Asra to do it if Julian doesn't.
> 
> And shit just got real.
> 
> Hang tight for a ritual gone horribly wrong.


	8. Have You Come Here for Forgiveness?  Have You Come to Raise the Dead?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from U2, 'One'.
> 
> Bolshoi spacibo to Verdin, MotherofCups, and my unnamed not girlfriend for beta reading.

On the first night of the Masquerade, Asra met Muriel at the back gate that led out into the fields. Part of Asra wishes that Muri had broken his promise to come, but he was short enough on participants as it stood. He only nodded to Asra then walked silently through the maze with him, shying away from the occasional couple who had hidden themselves away early within the night. At the fountain and willow tree just before the lawn opened up, Muriel stopped and insisted on remaining tucked away from the lights and the people. Asra continued. He’d never been to the palace during the Masquerade before, and the throngs of people in the street had always been enough to make his stomach churn. The idea of so many crowded into an enclosed space was worse somehow, but he had to find Nadi.

Costumed guests filled the palace, but he suspects not so many as there might have been during a regular year. There was enough space to move through them without being jostled and more importantly, to see around them.  _ This isn’t so bad. _ It took less time than Asra expected to find Nadia. She stood in a salon and entertained a group of wealthy looking merchants - at least, merchants who had once been wealthy before trade was shut down. He sent a little puff of magic through the air to catch her attention then waved when she lifted her eyes to his.

She excused herself from the group and crossed the room to where he stood by the door. “Asra.” The Countess greeted him with an embrace, wearing her own mask - happy, welcoming hostess. “Have you eaten?”

“I don’t think I could.”

Nadia’s face moved minutely closer to his, peering in his eyes. “Yes, yes, that’s to be expected when one undertakes something as momentous as you have planned.”

Asra shifted from foot to foot looking around her at the rest of the room, hoping that he’d see a head of dark red hair towering over the rest of them, or maybe just hear bad jokes being told in a too loud voice. The universe didn’t reward him with either. “Nadi, have you heard from Julian?”

“Not directly. My husband -” She took a glass of wine from the tray a servant offered her and drank deeply from it. “Claims that Julian is assisting the Quaestor - more than before.”

Asra’s stomach twisted again. He hadn’t seen or heard from Ilya since they fought and he walked out, and if indeed the Wheel of Fortune describes the rhythms and the rhymes of events throughout one’s life, he didn’t want to think about what comes after walking out on someone he . . . cared for in a fit of pique. 

“Why would he -?”

Nadia held up a hand. “I made some inquiries. But here isn’t the place. Your friend?”

“In the garden.”

“That would be better. Come.” She trades her empty glass for a full one from a passing waiter’s tray before extending her arm to Asra. “Walk with me. Do you like your costume?”

“It’s lovely.” That, at least, wasn’t a lie. Nadia had sent it to him as a gift, loose trousers gathered around his hips. A gauzy top, with a fine pattern of scales woven into the silk, sheer in front, with a thoughtfully opaque back for Faust to hide in when she pleased. Which tonight, appeared to be almost all of the time. A mask crafted to look like a snake covered his face. Perhaps Nadia knew that the spade shape was the head of a viper. Perhaps she didn’t. He decided not to ask her. And finally, a gold collar that probably cost more than Asra had ever held in his life was locked around his neck. He wasn’t quite used to the feel of it yet, but the weight - the weight seemed appropriate.

Muriel was still and silent on the far side of the willow tree. He had stretched out his legs and learned his head back against the tree. “Muri.” Asra spoke softly, hoping to not startle him. The gambit didn’t work and Muriel was on his feet in an instance, shoulders tensed. “Nadi is with me.”

Muriel’s exhale was long, and some of the tautness left his body with it. Nadia let go of Asra’s hand and stepped forward, still leaving plenty of space. “Muriel, I am pleased to meet you. Thank you for assisting us.”

A nod was the only indication Muriel gave that he heard her. Nadia took a deep breath and bit her lip. “Asra, regarding Julian. A member of the staff reported that he took ill.” Asra’s stomach twisted, harder than it had at the idea of food. Ilya couldn’t get sick. The idea was absurd. If he could, certainly it would have happened before now. Certainly he was somehow immune. He had to be.  _ Not now. No. _ He couldn’t die. “He’s been confined to one of the cells in the Quaestor’s lab.”

“How long ago?”

“I’m not sure. Six days? Maybe seven?” She reached into one of the folds of her skirt and drew out a heavy iron key. “You need him for this. Right?”

“I -” He should say no. Maybe he would have, except no would have accomplished nothing. It wouldn’t let Ilya go. Wouldn’t let him live peacefully.  _ Or even die peacefully. _ “Yes, I need him.”

“Take this key. It should get you in . . . and out with Julian.”

“Through the library?”

“No, listen carefully.” She gave them directions for an alternative route, one that led in through the cellars, and should - even with the masquerade in progress - be deserted at this time. Muriel nodded at intervals as she explained and even asked a question or two to clarify. 

Nadia took Asra’s hand again as she finished. “Have you finished all your preparations?”

“No. Almost. But not quite.” Not quite. He could still back out, refuse, claim it just didn’t work. Run away to the forest with Muri, if Inanna would even allow him to set foot near the hut in the woods anymore. Leave this damned place entirely maybe, if Muri and Inanna would no longer have him - and who could blame him. Move to Zadith, where he wouldn’t stand out so painfully every time he walked down the street. Just keep moving, because maybe if he kept moving long enough he could escape all his memories, forget her, live without -- no, no, he tried that before. And he couldn’t do it. He had only realized it too late.

“I should go be seen by the public a few more times. I’ll meet you there a bit before midnight.” She squeezed his fingers and nodded solemnly to Muriel. “I appreciate your help. I hope we’ll all be a bit better for this.” 

Muriel watched Nadia silently until she was pulled into conversation with another group of guests. “I don’t like it.” He ran his hand across his face nervously. His eyes darted about him, and he covered his face with the mask he’d brought for himself. It was rough carved wood, recognizable as the face of a bear, but only just so. Nothing at all like the beautiful work that Asra knew Muriel could do, knew because they had been selling the masks he whittled so carefully and brilliantly for years. If only Muri understood that he deserved beautiful things as much as anyone else.

“I know you don’t. But, Muri, I have to try.”

“But do you really need the rest of us?”

“I -” Asra rubbed his hands together until he noticed that the motion was raising pills on the silk gloves. “I do, Muri. And you'll be able to ask for something too. And Lucio doesn't get what he wants. At least there’s that.”

Muriel's only response was a disgruntled huff. Asra's hand went to his hair, trying to fidget and being defeated by the mask. This was - no, not this, nothing - nothing at all was right. This was just trying to make one thing a little closer to right. That was all.

“Give me the key. Go finish whatever this is that you’ve started.”

“Are you sure? I can come with you, you might need help with Julian. He doesn’t know you.”

“I’ve met him. He’s annoying. But doesn’t deserve to be locked up to die. And  _ I don’t want to know _ more about what you’re doing.”

Asra held out the bit of metal. Muriel’s lips pressed into a thin line as he took it. Tightly, as though he had started a process to lock himself away. Asra’s throat tightened painfully. Maybe this time he’d be locked out of Muri’s life forever. A final action that will drain the life from all the years they’ve relied on each other. He avoided even looking vaguely in Asra’s direction, and his movements changed ever so slightly, weighed down by an anger that seemed impossible to bear. Faust slid over his shoulder, and Muri reached out and stroked her head very gently.  _ Is he saying goodbye? _

“You remember the way?”

“I remember.” 

“Muri -”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Muri walked away. Faust hid herself again in Asra’s clothes with not so much as a flick of her tongue against his ear.

* * *

Nadia entered the hidden dining room, just as Asra was adding pinches of salt to reinforce key points in the sigil he had etched into the table. That was mostly hidden between a light tablecloth and the unnecessary spread of food that had been laid out on Lucio’s assistance. If there was to be a banquet, it had to meet the count’s standards to a greater or lesser extent. The plates where an actual person would sit were piled with generous portions of personal, idio-syncratically prefered dishes.

She laid her mask on the table next to her own plate. “Do you think it will work? With so many missing?”

“We’re still summoning a lot of power.” More than Asra had ever thought he’d work with or had ever contemplated controlling.

Nadia didn’t look entirely convinced. She hovered over the place assigned to her, tightening and loosening her grip on the back of the chair. Asra continued to place his pinches of salt, nudging unnecessary serving dishes out of their careful arrangement as needed. Back at the head of the table, his hands trembled as they hovered over a small silver dish of ash and ground bone. How had he - how could he?

Ilya looked bad - no, beyond bad - when Muriel hauled him in. Ashen skin, hollowed cheeks - he had lost even more weight in the days that passed since he and Asra fought over the book from Valdemar. The circles under his eyes were dark enough to be bruises. Faust lifted her head from inside his shirt and bumped against the side of his face.  _ “Friend. Sick.” _

As Muriel backed away into the shadows around the edges of the room, Nadia gasped in dismay and moved to the chair beside him, pouring a glass of wine - still just wine - and pressing it into his hand. “Julian, dear -” She cupped his face in her hands and lifted it, peering closely at his eyes. Even from the other end of the table, Asra could see that they were mismatched. One clear and one plague red. “You poor thing.”

“Nadia.” His voice was so hoarse. It had to be painful for him to speak. “I found it. The plague. The why. The cure.”

“You did? Julian, this - but how?”

His wild, half mad laugh dissolved into a coughing fit, and he took another sip of the wine. “You'll never believe it. Asra -” Ilya lifted his head and looked around. His eyes finally found Asra's - pupils feverish and face caught an expression caught halfway between elation and terror. “Asra. I did it.”

_ Oh, Ilya... _

“So here we all are.” Lucio entered from the otherside of the room, where a stairwell led up to his private chambers. His voice was weak - reedy, but he still managed to sound arrogant. Vain and confident even as he leaned heavily on Valerius to stay upright. The consul's face was grim, his hair was less than perfect, and there might be a hint of perfectly prosaic red in his eyes - the kind you get from not sleeping and from trying not to cry. Not that Asra cared. Valerius could go to hell with the rest of Lucio's court. Valerius shook his head even as he helped Lucio into his chair. Asra knew what he thought about this idea. Nonsense. The foolishness of a desperate, dying man and the grifter taking advantage of him.

“Jules?” The count caught sight of Julian, and there was a brief moment where Lucio looked honestly stricken by Ilya’s condition. Ilya raised his head for a moment and broke into laughter again. It sounded even more despairing this time. Lucio opened his mouth and spoke words that Asra had never expected to hear from him. “I’m sorry.”

“Little late for that, Lu. Little late.”

Vlastomil was the next to arrive. For the purposes of using personal affinities as a way to channel the power of the Arcana it didn’t seem to matter if the person was upright or reversed, because the notion that Vlastomil in any way personified Justice - despite his official role in the city - was absurd. He slithered around the table and loamed over Nadia. He cleared his throat. “Countess, I believe that you are in my seat.” 

Nadia turned her head and with her back to him, Asra could only imagine the outraged glare that Vlastomil was receiving. Her hands reluctantly left Ilya's shoulders as she stood and strode back to the place setting next to Asra's own. She leaned down and whispered in his ear. “I don’t like that we have to involve them. Are you  _ sure _ that you’ll be able to control what happens?”

“I believe so.” Yet another lie. He only thought so. Only hoped so.  _ Good thing reversed will count _ . The sense that he was not in control of what was about to happen only grew as he finished the final touches.

The perversions of Temperance and the Tower, Volta and Vulgora arrived next, the latter dragging the former along by the shoulder. She squeaked in dismay when she saw Ilya across from her seat at the table, elbows on the table and propping himself up as best he was able. She climbed into her chair and then nearly onto the table, to press a roll she snagged from a basket into his hand. Flabbergasted, he took it from her, then tore off a corner, chewing slowly as Volta clapped her hands together in approval. Asra found himself sighing in relief at the small gesture. Even if she’s the inverse of Temperance, at least someone here was kind. Even if it was only in the smallest of ways. 

Valdemar snickered as they took their place at what was either the head or the foot of the table. Ilya trembled violently as Valdemar ran a gloved hand over his shoulder, then he grabbed the wine again, drinking deeply. “Feeling better Zero-Six-Nine? I’m delighted that you are able to join us.”

Vulgora guffawed as if everything was an extended joke, a harlequinade developed for their entertainment. Maybe it was just some cruel joke that Valdemar had manipulated Asra into, preying on his desires.  _ My arrogance. _ Volta clutched her hands to her mouth and started to say something, only to sink back meekly into her chair when Vulgora shot a look at her.

Ilya’s head remained down, but his reply still carried. “Fuck you.” He lifted his eyes, just enough to look to Lucio again and then at Valdemar. “Both of you.”

Valerius squeezed the Count’s shoulders, but he still bowed his head at Ilya’s words, acknowledging - perhaps - that they were indirectly aimed at him as well. “If we must do it, let’s get on with this foolishness.” He paced around the table, paused to touch Volta’s shoulder, and continued, deliberate steps contrasting with unsophisticated manners of the rest of the court. His place was three down from Nadia, and he settled into it with his arms crossed over his chest. “Get on with it.” 

Asra looked to where Muriel was still hiding in the shadows. His lips moved, mouthing “please.”  _ Please, help me. _ Asra wasn’t even sure what that would mean at this point. Step into the circle, or -  _ knock me over the head and carry me out before this can go any further. _ Muriel lowered his chin, and his chest heaved with a sigh before he reluctantly stepped forward and sat down, glaring at Lucio. The sick man cackled. “So you're still alive, Scourge. Nothing seems to kill you.”

Asra’s throat tightened along with Muriel's fists, but neither of them said anything. Muriel’s gaze remained steady, fixed on Lucio. He lifted one of the pieces of eel from his plate and raised it to his lips, tearing into it, performing the brutish violence that Lucio expected from him, hinting at how easy it would be now to turn that anger back on it’s source.

Lucio looked away first, tapping his fingers nervously on the table. “Well, Asra, shall we begin?”

Asra dipped his chin in a nod and drew a small knife from his sash and walked to where Lucio sat at the table. He took no small pleasure in how the Count winced when he drew the knife across his palm - deeper than necessary - and held his hand over a goblet, collecting blood that he had no intention of using, because the focus of the ritual's power would be bound to the one whose blood cut the wine in the chalice passed about. And that wasn't going to be Lucio's.  _ Oh no. Not Lucio’s. Mine. _

He returned to his own place, and took the needlessly ornate chalice - already filled with a cloying sweet wine - from the empty space at the head of the table. Spoke some pretty sounding words that were utter nonsense as he moved bottles and goblets around in patterns that allowed him to replace the cup of Lucio's blood with one that he had filled earlier with his own blood before healing over the cut. No one the wiser. He’d run enough shell games in the past to be practiced at misdirection. A pinch of ash and pulverized bone that perhaps no one noticed dropped into the cup. He felt Valdemar's eyes on him from the end of the table, and it almost took too much of his concentration to keep his hands from shaking.  _ They knew. _ And  _ who knew _ what game they were playing at.

Asra dipped his finger into the goblet. The sigil etched into the wooden surface, beneath the sheer tablecloth, was as perfect as he could possibly make it. Perfect. But incomplete. There was one line left to be drawn. He could see the space, both in his mind and just through the fabric. Carefully - oh, so carefully, because this had to go right - he touched his finger down and drew two straight lines that almost met.

He lifted the chalice, said some more words that meant nothing, then brought it to his lips and drank. Mostly wine, he reminded himself. Almost all wine. And blood. And a bit of ash and finely ground bone. Maybe Muri was right and nothing good could come of this kind of magic. He closed his eyes and took a slow breath.

Then he passed the chalice to Nadia. She closed her eyes and lifted the cup to her lips, hesitates, then sips from it.  _ Only a sip _ , he had reassured her when he explained this.  _ No more is necessary. _

At the Empress’s empty place, he dipped his finger into the wine and traced the engraving on the gold plate. The symbol for mercury surrounded by a heart. At the Emperor’s a ram’s head. Valerius visibly grimaced when he took the chalice; the only time Asra had seen him displeased to be offered wine.

Two overlapping V’s at the place for the Lovers. Wings of victory at the Chariots’s place. A rough sketch of a lion in the place of Strength. Asra nicked his finger on a sharp edge left on the engraving, but it didn’t seem like something that would matter. Not if his blood is already in the cup.

For one terrible moment, Asra thought Muriel was going to refuse entirely or take the cup from him and cast it to the floor. He shook his head yet again, but still he drank. Drank and shoved the cup into Asra’s hands. Vlastomil’s cold fingers are damp when they brush against Asra’s, and he suppressed a shudder before moving forward. A simple circle for the Wheel, then he stood beside Ilya.

His single reddened eye was more shocking close up - framed by tangled, sweat soaked hair. Asra’s breath caught in his throat. His hands almost set the cup down. Almost took Ilya by his shoulders and pulled him home, cleaned him up, sobbed apologies. When he started to touch Ilya’s cheek, he flinched back from Asra’s fingers. 

Ilya’s own hands shook, and Asra kept his own hands around the heavy chalice, holding it to his mouth. Ilya drank as if he simply didn't care anymore, simply wanted this and everything else to end. _ I should have listened to you. But here we are. _ Asra knelt down beside the chair. This time, Ilya didn’t pull away when he stroked his cheek. Asra leaned close and kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry, Ilya.” 

Valdemar laughed. “Well done, Magician. Give it here.” The satisfied smile on their face as they drank and passed the chalice to Volta, didn’t send a shiver through Asra. No, he froze solid, blood temporarily turned to ice. 

Lucio nearly drained the chalice, because of course, the greedy ass still wanted everything for himself. Yet, there was enough left for Vulgora to drink and for Asra to anoint the engravings at the remaining settings. Finally, he was back at the head of the table, hand hovering over the final gap in the sigil. One final step. Once this was done, there would be no way to return, no way to go back,  _ no way to undo whatever I’m about to do. _ Before he could answer his own questions, the wine and blood dripped from his figure and fell into the empty space, finishing the spell.

Wind rushed through the room, whipping Asra’s hair about his face. Faust hissed in dismay and curled tightly around his chest, hidden beneath his shirt. He glanced to the side and for a moment, he saw the familiar fox face of the Magician - the actual one, not the dim reflection that Asra could manifest - shaking his head slowly. A lock of hair flew into Asra’s eyes and by the time he opened them again, the Arcana was gone.

The wind shoved Asra to the side, and he stumbled over his own chair before falling into it, every limb limp and loose, even as every muscle screamed with the pain of a sudden convulsion. Every candle in the room guttered plunging them into total darkness. Nadia clutched his hand as someone shrieked in distress from the other end of the table.

A bolt of lightning struck the center of the floor and arched to the candles and the chandeliers, illuminating the room more intensely than before. A clap of thunder quaked the floor and shook the walls.

A massive figure loomed over Lucio. He wore a long stole that parodied those Asra had seen on some of the priests in the temple district. The figure had a goat’s head and red eyes with slitted pupils, but teeth that were designed for ripping flesh from bone and not masticating grass - the Devil. Even though he knew that this was the intention of the ritual - summoning a being of power into a realm, this realm, that they didn’t belong in - a vise of dread clamped around Asra’s chest. 

The Devil chuckled, touched a long black claw to his chin, and leaned forward, peering down at Lucio. “It seems someone has taken my chair. How rude.” He stroked Lucio’s sunken cheek, and the Count shivered beneath the touch. “No matter for the moment.” The Devil folded his hands behind his back and began to pace around the table. “Ah, some old friends. Vulgora, managing to maintain decorum for the moment. Volta dear, there’s no need to hide under the table. Valdemar, are you pleased with yourself?” He stopped behind the next chair and lifted a lock of Ilya’s hair before letting it drop back. Ilya remained perfectly still, so still it was as if he was held in place by ropes. “You’ve found me a rather handsome Hanged Man, at least, even if he’s seen better days.” The Devil ran his sharp claws through Ilya’s hair. Asra thought that maybe, just maybe, he saw the muscles in Ilya’s jaw tighten.

The Devil continues with a little tweak of Vlastomil’s scanty beard. “Still squirming your way into things, I see. And an empty space. One of several.”

Muriel’s eyes were squeezed shut, as though none of this will have been real if he doesn’t open them. He would never have let Asra talk him into this. It would just be another nightmare. A new one. With less blood, but just as awful, and Inanna wasn’t here to wake him from it. “Oh come now, Hermit.” The Devil chides him. “Just because you refuse to look at me doesn’t mean I’m not here.” 

_ Oh, Muri, I’m so sorry. _

The Devil walked past the next three empty chairs, stopping briefly at Valerius to squeeze his shoulders and exhort him to not “look so grim.” He smiled when he reached Nadia. “Now, this is someone I didn’t expect to see here. The High Priestess’s little pet, all grown up now. You didn’t learn your lessons very well. And you -” Cold claws settle onto Asra’s shoulders. “You’re a real prize, aren’t you,  _ Thaumaturge _ ? To have managed all this. Even if you understand far less than half of it.” The claws pulled back from, and the breath Asra hadn’t realized he was holding escaped his body. The Devil shoved the plate and cutlery at the head of the table back and settled himself into the chair, rearranging his stole. “Now, my friends, why have you brought me here?”

“I want my body back. My whole body. Not -” Lucio glanced at the golden arm on his left. It’s less impressive without the extra armor. Unless one understood the magic that had gone into its creation. The price that had been paid for it: two lives lost and one more orphan to roam the streets. “Not this plague riddled monstrosity.”

The Devil tilted his head to the side and looked Lucio over carefully. He stroked his chin slowly and shook his head. “No.”

“What?” Lucio raised himself to his feet long enough to slam his fists down on the table. “I brought you here. I arranged this.”

“No. My colleague at the end of the table and our pretty little magician brought me here. You arranged a rather -” The Devil circled his hand in the air. “Incomplete party.”

Any remaining strength left Lucio’s face, and he slumped back in his chair. In the corner of his vision, Asra saw Valerius’ eyebrows raise in dismay. The consul started to rise before some the Devil flicked a finger and an invisible hand shoved him back.

“But it was my blood!” Lucio’s complaint was nasal. Pathetic.

“No.” The Devil turned his gaze slowly back to Asra. “It wasn’t your blood that brought me here.”

Lucio looked confused, then his eyes widened as he put together what had happened. He clenched both fists, the one of flesh and the one of metal, then narrowed his eyes into a murderous glare. “You, you -” He tried to stand and fell back. “ _ Thief _ .”

Asra can’t stop himself. He burst into laughter that sounded deranged even to himself. Laughter that he couldn’t control. Not until he laid his head down on the table, and tears formed in his eyes, and Nadia’s grip around his hand became painful. He raised his head and stared straight at Lucio. “You lose.”

“Don’t fret too much, Lucio. I’ve had my eye on you for some time. And I am a magnanimous being. You’ll be given a second chance.” The Devil stretched out an arm, touching Asra’s chin and turning his head. “But what is it that you think you’ve won, Magician?”

“I want her back. I  _ need _ her back.”

“All this trouble over a dead girl.” Clearly the Devil knows the antecedent of the pronoun. “One single dead girl out of so very, very many.” The Devil folds his hand under his chin. “Let me consider. There’s still the problem that our little party remains incomplete. What else will you give me, Asra?”

“Anything. Take... take half of my heart.” He didn’t have more than that. Not really. Not since he returned, and she was only ash and bone.

“Mmm . . . enough perhaps for a body. But I think you want a soul returned. And that is no trifling matter.”

“All of it then. Even if -” Even if he died. She’d be alive. Asra clutched his free hand over his chest. She’d have Ilya, and Ilya would have her, and maybe that bargain could satisfy. His own self for them to be happy.

“Still not enough.”

Silence. Lucio started to laugh, because why shouldn’t he if Asra was going to fail as well. Then the laughs turned to coughs, and it seems less and less likely that either of them will make it out alive. 

But then Ilya shook himself from his stupor and lifted his head. “My memories. Of her. You can have them. If - if it brings her back. And if you end this plague so that it can’t touch her again.”

Asra can only manage a whisper. “Ilya, no -” 

“I don’t deserve her. . . I never did. I certainly don’t now. Not, not after the things I’ve done.”

If Asra’s heart hadn’t already been broken in two, it was now.  _ Ilya. Dammit. You fool. _

Valdemar folded their hands under their chin and twittered, then abruptly the Devil was next to Ilya all without rising from the table. He sat on the corner of the table and leaned over. The way he stroked Ilya’s face could almost - just almost - be described as tender - sympathetic.

“You understand what that means? Both parts of your request?”

Ilya ignored the claws in his hair and looked across the table to Lucio. He swallowed hard, looked down, then looked back up at the Devil. “I do.”

“Very well. Half a lover’s heart, and another lover’s memories for a dead girl’s body and soul. It will do. I hope it’s worth it.” The Devil started to pace around the table again. “And the rest of you? What boons do you wish? Our failed Hierophant?”

Valerius’ face was taut, full lips pressed into a straight line. “You know what I want.”

“I do. What I don’t know is if you are quite ruthless enough to take it once I’ve offered. And you -” The Devil’s gaze shifted to Nadia. “What do you want, poor pupil of the High Priestess?”

Nadia’s hand shook in Asra’s, but she lifted her head regally, chin steady. “To forget.” Her eyes darted to Lucio, then back to the Devil. “To forget  _ him _ .”

The corners of the Devil’s mouth pulled back, revealing sharp, yellow teeth. Maybe it could be called a smile. “Easy enough. And you, Hermit? You are here, no matter how you try to convince yourself otherwise.”

Muriel still didn’t open his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was small. “To be forgotten.”

“To forget and to be forgotten. Such a nice couplet. Very well. Is there any other business before we finish?”

Lucio opened his mouth only to be cut off by the Devil’s extended hand. “Don’t test my charity, Lucio. I’ve already assured you of a second opportunity to get what you want. I suggest you accept it.” The Devil looked around the silent table. Volta trembled in her chair. Vulgora picked at the points of their gauntlet. Vlastomil rubbed his hands together gleefully. And Valdemar. Valdemar’s grin could have frozen a bonfire. 

“Well then, this concludes our little meeting. I hope all will be satisfied.” The Devil clapped his hands together and, with another flare of the candles, disappeared.

For a moment time froze. Then Valdemar broke into a hideous, triumphant cackle and raised their hands in the air. “Thank you,  _ Thaumaturge _ .” They cut their arms down and out to the side. With that gesture, all the uncanny courtiers vanished. 

Lucio groaned and began to cough, red blood streaming down his chin. He shoved his chair back - hard enough that it toppled to the floor behind him - picked himself up and staggered toward the stairs, left shoulder lowered, as if he finally felt the weight of the metal arm. Nadia coughed and reached for her glass of water, but it dropped from her hand and shattered on the floor. Lucio was climbing the stairs now, leaning heavily on the wall and disappearing around the first turn of the spiral. 

Valerius shouted, “Lu -” and ran after him, tripping once over his robes, all sense of decorum forgotten, and Asra should find this amusing, because the consul is a pretentious ass with horrible taste in men, but he couldn’t laugh. Not with Nadia choking beside him and patting her back wasn’t helping.

Muriel’s eyes snapped open darker and angrier than Asra had ever seen them. His fists clenched with fury, and then he was gone too, running after Lucio and Valerius with a roar of pure rage. Asra started to get up. To follow, because Muri can’t, he shouldn’t - it’d be the thing that finally broke him entirely - even if he wanted nothing more. Even if he deserved more than anyone to bury a knife in Lucio’s heart.

Nadia’s hand went limp in Asra’s, and she collapsed forward. Glassware shattered across the table. He took her shoulders and lifted her just enough to know that she still breathed, that the glass hadn’t cut her. Pushed the plate out of the way and laid her back with one arm under her head for support.

The crash of Nadia going down seemed to bring Ilya back to life. He rose, shaky on his feet then rolled his shoulders and found some reserve of strength. With a groan, he looked down the table, and his eyes - still mismatched and sunk deep in dark circles - met Asra’s. For a moment, they were the eyes of a dog that’s been kicked too many times. One that was at the point of breaking, finally lashing out because he didn’t understand why he has been treated so cruelly. Then they narrowed into those of a man who’s been misused and betrayed again and again by people he thought he could trust. Too very many times and had only just admitted it to himself. He snatched a sharp knife and vaulted over the table, as if he hadn’t barely been able to keep his head up a moment before, and dashed toward the stairs.  _ To follow Lucio and Valerius? Why? _ But he stopped short and turned back, fixed Asra with a single baleful glare, and threw the knife with a practiced flick of his wrist.

It hit. Cold and hard. No less painful - no it was  _ more _ painful - because -  _ dammit all to hell _ \- Asra knew that he deserved it. The force knocked him back in his chair, hands clutching the knife in his chest.

Before his vision could go dark, fire exploded from the center of the room. Brilliant white light shot through his eyes, even closed. The concussion wave rolled across Asra and sent him tumbling into the floor, turning the knife to molten metal that poured into his veins and arteries. 

He screamed.

And screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Sorry that took so long... And it's now the penultimate chapter.


	9. You'll Stumble in My Footsteps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Depeche Mode, ['Walking in My Shoes'](https://youtu.be/GrC_yuzO-Ss):  
> "You'll stumble in my footsteps  
> Keep the same appointments I kept  
> If you try walking in my shoes" 
> 
> Runner up: Florence and the Machine, "No Light, No Light"

The fire hit him like a wave and ebbed just as quickly. When it was gone, Asra wasn’t the only one screaming. 

The feeling of every single muscle in his body having constricted at once receded slowly though, first from his temples, from his teeth, from his eyes - but not from his chest. The light dimmed, enough to open his eyes, and . . . She’s there. Naked. Curled on her side beside a fallen chair, wild hair - longer than he had ever seen it - falling over her face.  _ How strange _ \- some other street kid once told him that your hair and nails keep growing after you die, part of a ghost story, meant to terrify the littlest of them.  _ Why am I thinking of that now? _

He crawled to her, brushed her hair back, chest tightening again when he saw her eyes - wide with terror. Closed his hands around her arms. She screamed again when he tried to lift her from the floor. Screamed, jerked her arms away, and kicked backward shoving herself away from him.

“Dema.”

Her gaze moved around the room then returned to him, but there was no recognition in her eyes. She shivered and shook and sobbed, breath ragged, wrapped her arms tightly around herself, left arm on the inside and cradled against her chest, the same way she always had when she was anxious or sad. “Dema, love.” He extended one hand, palm up -  _ Empty, see? I won’t hurt you. Never again. _ \- and her hand darted out, batting away a perceived threat. “Sweetheart, please.” Something stabbed and twisted through his chest again, like a band pulled too tight, and he doubled over with a hiss and a sob.

A light touch to his face, brushing aside a tear from the corner of his eye. Faust. She slipped out of his blouse and slithered slowly across the floor. Dema quieted as the snake raised her head and flicked her tongue into the air. Quieted and extended one arm toward the snake - slowly, carefully. Faust wound herself around it and when Dema lifted her hand again, coiled herself loosely around her neck, sliding through the tangled hair and butting her head against Dema’s face.

_ “Friend.” _

Dema’s breath was still ragged, still coming in hiccups and coughs, but she settled under Faust’s weight, slowly stroking the snake’s head and running trembling fingers along her smooth scales.

A little of the tightness receded from Asra’s chest. Did she know Faust? Recognize his familiar if not him? Can she hear Faust? She’d never been able to before. But now? He could try to approach her again. Maybe now she’d recognize him. Or Faust would tell her. But he stayed on the floor, weight resting on his arms and watched. He was scared to move again, scared to startle her, to set off the terror she felt before. Besides, he wasn’t sure that he could get up.

_ “Friend.”  _ Faust rubbed her head against Dema’s face, flicking her tongue out delicately to touch and smell and greet.  _ “Friend back. Happy.” _

“Asra.” 

He and Dema both started, surprised by a soft, deep voice, and he could see her body tense with apprehension. But it’s Muri. Just Muri. He moved so quietly when he wanted to. Which was always.  _ Please help me. _ He couldn’t speak the words any more than he had been able to when he was a child on the docks, smaller than all the others and forever running from them. Until Muriel showed up. 

Dema’s breath began to quicken again, and she pushed herself back - a little further from Muri, a little further from Asra, and he only barely managed to not cry out again. Faust rubbed her head along Dema’s cheek again, calming her before the panic could return with full force.  _ “Big friend. Help.” _

The prior rage was gone from Muriel’s eyes as he looked them over. They were just green: green and kind and Muri. He shook his head sadly, and undid his cloak from his shoulders holding it out and approaching Dema slowly, very slowly. He held his hand up, vertical to the floor and waited. Her breathing slowed, and she raised her hand, extending it in front of her, until her palm touched Muriel’s. He blew air through his lips, making a series of small, soothing, wordless sounds. He waited for Dema to stop shaking, then closed his hand around her much smaller one. Another few breaths passed, then he let go of her hand and draped his cloak around her. She stiffened for a moment, then collapsed against him, letting him run a gentle hand over her hair as he continued to make soothing sounds.

Faust continued to curl around her neck and shoulders.  _ “Friend. Safe.” _

Asra let his head drop to the floor, and he wasn’t sure if it was from shame or relief or both. But he needed to let himself catch his breath. Let some of the tautness in his chest dissipate. Let Muri finish working whatever magic he was steadily working for Dema. Asra braced himself against the table and stood up carefully, trying to take in the space.

_ Nadia. _ He had forgotten Nadia. She had been thrown back too and lay on the floor, arms thrown out beside her head.  _ Too still. _ But her chest still rose and fell, if shallowly. He knelt back on the floor and jerked the hem of his blouse from his sash, and dabbed at the bits of food on Nadia’s face.  _ What had happened to her? _ He patted her cheek. “Nadi, Nadi, please.” She’d have some idea what to do - of course she would, she always did - if she’d just  _ wake up _ . Her lips parted and a little moan escaped them, but she didn’t open her eyes.  _ Nadi, I need you. _

When he gave up and stood again, Muriel had gotten Dema to her feet, holding her up on shaky, trembling legs. She walked with him, one step, then another, while Muriel kept whispering encouragements to her. Asra held out his arms, cautiously, oh so cautiously because his heart might break entirely if he frightens her again.  _ Don’t be scared of me, please, don’t reject me. _

Faust flicked her tongue against her cheek.  _ “Safe. Safe friend. Love.” _

Dema raised her eyes - wide and confused and so very blue - to his and blinked twice at him, tilting her head just slightly to the side.  _ Was that a flicker of recognition? Does she know me now? _ Her hand lifted and touched Faust again, seeking reassurance there.  _ Please, know me. _ Then she took another halting step forward reaching out and falling into Asra's arms as Muriel let her go. 

He pulled her close to his chest, head over his heart. Buried his face in her hair and sobbed. “You're safe. You're safe now. I promise, my love, my heart.”  _ Yes, my heart. True before and so very much more so. _ She still trembled, arms held tight to her chest, shivering violently. She wasn’t embracing him back, but at least she was allowing him to embrace her.  _ Enough - she’s in my arms again - for now. _ He tried to tuck Muriel's cloak tighter around her and smooth the tangled hair back from her face. It shouldn’t be tangled. She always braided it at night, since she had let it grow long, just so it wouldn’t be tangled in the morning.

When he looked up, Muri was crouched next to Nadia, checking her pulse. She looked so fragile under his big hands.  _ What was it that she had asked for? _ Everything seemed so distant, so hazy already, lost somewhere in the fire that had burnt through the room. 

“We need to go.” Muriel scooped Nadia up in his arms. “Help Dema walk. I think she can, but not on her own.”

Muriel led them up the second set of stairs from the dining room. He still remembered the way out, the one that would lead through the kitchens, then eventually the gardens. Of course, he did. He was always watching, always paying attention to where he was and how he could escape if he needed to. Asra gave up on trying to help Dema to climb the stairs, and lifted her as best he could, holding her tight against him. She felt lighter than she ever had, and that made it easier to carry her, but that was a poor trade.  _ So fragile _ . Maybe they could pause in the garden, rest in one of the corners where jasmine grew. She’d always liked jasmine, letting it grow over the walls at the back of the shop. They’d sat under it so many spring and summer evenings, and he had heard that smell was tied to memory. Would such a simple thing help her?  _ When I’ve failed so horribly. _

They emerged into one of the few hallways that remained devoid of party-goers. Asra could still hear the music and the noise of the revelry beyond, blissfully unaware of everything that had unfolded. Muriel nudged a door hidden in the wall open. “Wait here. I'll get the Countess to where help can find her.”

Asra set Dema back on her feet. She leaned close against him, shivers coming and going, and he couldn't do anything but run his hand over her back and stroke her hair, and murmur promises he might not be able to keep. “It’s going to be okay. Everything will be alright. You’ll be alright.”  _ You have to be alright. I don’t know what I’ll do if you aren’t alright. _ The air in the hall was so much colder than it should be, unseasonably frigid, like the seasons themselves had turned upside down. It should be warm on a summer evening. And her feet were bare against the stone floor, and it had to be cold, and there was nothing he could do to fix it. Any of it. 

Muriel laid Nadia's still body on a padded bench not far down the hall and looked around. Then he roared for the guards. His voice echoed down the hall as he ran back to Asra and shoved aside a tapestry to uncover and shove open a hidden door. He took Dema from Asra, lifting her easily. She gasped and wrapped one hand around Asra's before Faust whispered again reassuring her that she was safe. Asra felt tears forming again in his eyes as her finger pulled away, but he couldn't carry her. Not as far as home, or somewhere safe, or relatively safe. And Muri could. 

Muriel ran his own hand over Dema's hair, trying to reassure her himself. That's who Muri was. Kind. Even though he hadn't, even though he didn't approve of any of this. “Come. This is a way out.”

By the time they made it back to the shop, the city itself had exploded into a different kind of madness. It all felt distant - not quite real - like he was underwater and hearing the voices of those above him. People ran through the streets and gathered around the bonfires, huddling closer now that the summer warmth had fled the city.  _ Something happened at the palace. A fire? The Count was dead? Or was it the Countess? _ No one in the street paid attention to Asra, and he doubted that he would be able to answer any of the questions swirling about anyway. Even if he had been in the center of the events. And their eyes passed over Muriel as if he simply wasn’t there.  _ Forgotten. _ Muriel’s request of the Devil.  _ How am I not affected? Oh stars, don’t let me forget him! _

When Asra opened the door, nothing in the shop had changed. Everything was where it should be even as nothing was as it should be. __ Upstairs Asra waved his hand, lighting all of the lamps in the bedroom at once, illuminating the space with their glow. 

Muriel set Dema down on the bed. She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around. Muriel adjusted the cloak around her shoulders where it had fallen loose. “You poor thing.” Her eyes darted around the room as if taking it in for the first time, wide and worried. Faust - still around her neck - continued to rub her head against Dema’s cheek. Muriel squeezed her hand one more time and straightened up. As he walked out of the room, he set his hand on Asra’s shoulder with a heavy sigh. “I’ll make some tea.”

“Dema,” Asra spoke softly. Her eyes moved to his. They didn’t look quite as anguished as before. He thought so. He hoped so. She tilted her chin down, pushed her hair back from her face, and touched Faust where the snake had curled in her lap. Asra knelt down in front of her and curved his hand around her cheek. This time, she didn't pull away from him. Didn't look frightened, at least not so much. Let him press his forehead to hers. It’s not the kiss that he wanted to give her; the kiss that he just knows would be too much for her right now. He felt tentative, exploring fingers in his hair and blinked back tears before they could overwhelm him entirely. “Come back to me, sweetheart, please.”

There was almost a smile on her lips when he leaned back enough to see her face. Almost. Maybe she heard the affection in his words and believed it. But still, her eyes squinted as if she was looking for some clue that would let her put together who was in front of her, let her recall a name. She brushed her fingers over his cheek, frowning a little at dampness there. He’d never felt her fingers so soft before, they’d always been calloused from plucking weeds from her garden or drying and grinding and tincturing herbs. The cloak slid from her shoulder again. “I should get you something to wear, shouldn't I?” He folded both his hands around hers and touched his lips to her fingers. “Just a second.” 

The first garment that came to hand was one of Ilya's blousy shirts that he’d left behind at some point. Asra froze and pressed it to his face, trying not to remember that last look Ilya had given him, how his grey eyes had turned from dove like softness to pure, cutting flint.  _ Why is that so clear, when...? _ Time enough to sort out what he did and didn’t know - did and didn’t remember - later. She touched the shirt when he turned back around to her and smiled a little bit as if the texture pleased her. “Here, darling.” He started with her left arm, the one Muriel’s cloak had already fallen from, pulling it away from her body, then freezing before he could slip the fabric over it. Her skin was . . . Perfect. He turned her hand just a little, then dropped the shirt onto the bed, running his hand along the soft, smooth skin of her inner arm. No scars.

“Dema?”

Confused eyes look up at him. She didn't understand. Didn't know. Gently, he pulled her right arm away from her chest. No bright phoenix tattoo trailing across her ribs, and he almost laughed because - because it would be so awfully appropriate. But there were no marks on her. Not the perfectly innocent ones from banging up her knee in a childhood tumble. Not the angrier, later ones. She let him extend her left arm until he could see the inside again. Smooth skin. No scars from badly healed burns and cuts and tears. Just skin. Asra closed his eyes and only just kept himself from kissing the inside of her wrist. He desperately wanted to know what it felt like with no scars. And yet, something about the lack of all the ways her life had marked her - how she had marked herself - felt so very wrong.

He opened his eyes again and helped her into the shirt, doing up a couple of the buttons for her and then nearly cheered when she put her hands over his and did the rest on her own, fingers moving deftly as muscle memory took over. “Come on, sweetheart. Let's have some tea. Food maybe?” He wasn’t hungry, not after everything, but how would he know if she was? And maybe tea might help. Tea was its own kind of magic. Maybe Muri had made jasmine. 

He tugged her hands and pulled her from the bed. She seemed a little steadier on her feet, but he kept a hand under her elbow anyway, ready to catch her if she stumbled.

The kitchen was bright and warm and - to Asra's mind - welcoming. Muriel had built a fire in the stove, blazing hot and bright, grate left open to draw in oxygen, to maximize the heat that was needed to bring the water to boil quickly, to warm the cold air in the apartment. 

Beside him, Dema stiffened and with a little cry of panic, spun around darting for the apparent safety of the bedroom. “Dema, what is it?” He grabbed her hand, but let her pull him to the bed. She folded her legs under her, and when Asra sat down beside her, wrapped her hand around his upper arm and pressed her face against it. The same way she had a hundred times before. “Darling.” He stroked her hair with his free hand. It needed to be combed out, or the tangles would only get worse.  _ Where’s a comb, a brush, something? I can fix this at least. _

“It's the fire.” Muriel stood in the doorway with his arms folded across his chest and his lips pressed into a thin grim line. “She remembers fire. One or the other. Or both.”

“Oh.” Asra felt his jaw drop open.  _ “Oh.” _ The other fire: the ashes, the charred bone that he had found, brought back with him, finally buried in the yard underneath the fig tree that kept coming back from its roots even when the winter cold killed. It all looked so much more _... deranged...  _ in retrospect. He shuddered and kissed the top of her head.  _ Of all the things to recall... _ “Why -  _ why that _ when she doesn’t remember anything else?”

Muriel’s shoulders lifted, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “You made a bargain with the Devil. For a body and a soul. Not for memories. Who knows what perverse joke he’s played.” He sighed and shook his head. “I'll bring the tea in here. There's bread, but not much else that hasn’t gone off.” 

Dema curled against him, shivering, and Faust wound around both of them.  _ “Safe. No fire. Safe.”  _ The snake slid back onto a pillow behind them when Muri returned with two large steaming mugs of tea.

Asra took the mug closer to him. As he raised it to his lips, two insistent hands closed around the warm ceramic and tugged insistently. He lowered his hands. Dema’s fingers were curled around his. “What is it?”

Muri laughed, and the sound of it washed through Asra like a warm wave on a tropical beach. “That’s her mug.”

Muriel was right. It  _ was _ her mug that he held. A large one, hand-thrown, and decorated with monochrome line work depicting waving stalks of wheat. He shook his head and felt his mouth form a smile.  _ Not just the fire then. _ He let her take it from him, and when she pressed it possessively to her lips, felt the first bit of real hope in this entire damned night.

The other mug was nothing special - a brightly colored one that he thinks he brought back from Nopal because the turtle pattern had appealed to him. At that moment though, it was elevated in status to one of the greatest of his multiple small treasures. He hardly tasted the tea through the honey that Muriel had loaded into it, and Dema made a face, but everything was sweet right for these brief few seconds.  _ Something. She remembers something. _

Muriel leaned back enough to reach out and run his fingers over Faust’s smooth scales. She bumped her head against his hand and started to coil around his arm. He shook his head at the snake. “Sorry, girl.” He scratched under her jaw and turned his head back, looking over Dema and at Asra. “I need to go. Home.” 

“You're leaving?”

He started to stand. Dema made a small, distressed noise and grabbed for his hand. He squeezed her fingers and leaned over awkwardly to kiss the top of her head. “You're safe. She's safe. At least for now. I can't help you out of this mess, Asra. I shouldn't have helped you get into it.”

Asra couldn't argue with that, even if he wasn't ready to agree with it. Even just within the privacy of his own head, where the details of how he created this mess were getting more and more confused with each moment. Like waking from a nightmare and being left with nothing more than incoherent, inexplicable dread. Without Muriel, who else . . . “Can you do one last thing for me? Please. Take Artemis a note.”

Muriel sighed. His eyes moved over Dema - still holding onto his fingers - and his eyes softened, just a bit. “Alright.”

* * *

_ Artemis. _

Artemis held the now-crumpled note in her hand as she walked through the streets, but for the life of her, she couldn't remember who had given it to her. The handwriting and the signature were Asra’s, a plea for her to come - he was in trouble. She wasn’t even sure why she had bothered to pull on her boots. Asra had been brewing trouble since he returned, and if it had finally exploded in his face - well, maybe it was deserved. He certainly hadn’t been interested in anyone's help before now. But still... She’s known him too long to give up entirely. 

Perhaps he’s just come to his senses.  _ That alone would be painful enough for him. _

She clutched her shawl tighter around her. It shouldn’t have been so cold. A wind blowing in from the harbor might have explained it, but the air was still. Despite the temperature, people shrieked and chased each other through the streets. A flower seller who she vaguely recognized from the market grabbed her hands, pressed an iris into them and spun her about. “It’s ended!”

“What?” She thought she might recognize them from somewhere, but she can’t recall their name. “What ended?”

“The plague. It’s over!” They turned again and skipped away.

She stood frozen in the street.  _ The plague was over? Plagues don’t end like this. Not in a single moment, no. _ The world didn’t work like this. The sickness should slow as those susceptible died, as the percentage of people resistant for whatever reason became a higher percentage of the population. That was how these things worked.

Someone laughed beside her. Selasi. The baker’s grin reached from ear to ear. “You hadn’t heard yet? It’s over. At least, we think. The sick are - they’re just getting up and walking. It’s some kind of miracle.”

“I - no - what?” The iris falls from her hands and to the cobblestones beneath her feet.  _ Impossible. _

“I don’t understand either. But who cares! It’s over.” He hugs her with a laugh, then steps back with a slightly more serious look. “You haven’t heard the rest of it though, have you?”

“I hadn’t heard anything.” She had been trying to sleep through the noise outside her window. Rest appealed more than ironic revelry.

“Something happened at the palace. They’re saying the Count is dead. Murdered.”

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Good riddance.” Probably an unwise thing to say in the street, but she ran out of fucks to give a long time ago. If an affronted guard wanted to drag her to the palace to state her piece in person, so be it. It would be a satisfying tongue lashing to deliver.

“That’s not all of it. The rest of the rumor is that Devorak did it.”

“Julian?” She shook her head. “There’s no way, Selasi. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t...”

Selasi shrugged. “You know him better than I do.”

“There’s no way. Someone heard something wrong.” She twisted the note that she still held in her hand. “Have you seen Asra?”

“Nope. Haven’t in a week or two.” Selasi reached out and snagged his daughter by the arm as she ran by chasing after another kid. “Hey, I told you not to leave the market square.”

“But, da -”

“No. Sorry, I need to get this one back where she should be. Tell Asra to stop by when you find him, okay.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I will.” Artemis paused and watched as the baker returned his daughter to the safety of the well-lit market square with its paper lanterns and a roaring bonfire. An apparent end to the plague. Rumors that the Count had died. The absurd notion that Julian had murdered him. And a desperate note from Asra delivered by someone whose face she couldn’t recall. She shoved the scrap of paper in her pocket and rubbed her temples. The first two items should be reasons for her to dance through the streets herself. But the second two... her stomach felt tight with apprehension. 

There was light in the upstairs window of Dema’s - no, Asra’s shop. There hadn’t been light in that window for months now. Asra had continued sleeping downstairs after he returned, moving upstairs would have been one more change to add to the long list of the ones he was incapable of dealing with. She turned her key and pushed open the door. The only light downstairs came in through the front windows, and the backroom was entirely dark and still. “Asra?” 

“Please, don't yell.” Asra stood on the stairs, hair disheveled and wearing clothes under an ankle length robe that didn't even pretend to match. A glowing ball of light hovered beside him. “Please.” He held out his hand and curled his fingers beckoning her forward. “Just come upstairs, please, Artemis. I’ll try to explain it.”

“Is it Julian? The rumors in the streets -” She started up the stairs after him.

The kitchen smelled of freshly brewed tea and was filled with light and warmth from the lit stove, but Asra turned toward the bedroom instead, pushing aside the curtain. “No, it's not Ilya.”

Beyond him, the bedroom was dim, lit only by the glow of magic lamps which produced just enough to see a small figure lying in the bed, apparently asleep. Faust coiled close beside her, possibly seeking heat as the space wasn’t much warmer than the street outside. Asra gestured and the lamps increased in brightness until the girl’s features could be seen. Artemis halted and pressed a hand to her chest.  _ No. It can't be. _

“Oh Asra, what the hell have you done?” Artemis knelt down beside the sleeping girl - no, woman, it was only the way that she curled in on herself - knees drawn up to her chest - that made her seem like a child - and gently picked up her hand. She turned it over then ran a finger over the smooth skin inside her arms in amazement. None of the scars that would identify her in the absence of other signs. “This can't be Dema. Asra, who -?” The face was Dema’s though. 

“It’s her.” Asra shuffled his feet. “I - I don’t know exactly what I did, but it’s her.”

“How do you not know?”

“I - Something. Some magic. A ritual. At the palace. But it’s all -” He rubbed his temples then the left side of his chest. “A haze.”

Artemis pushed the hair back from the woman’s face: a nose she knew, a cheek that looked a bit hollow but still familiar, but no signs of the three piercings that should be in her ears. The woman started awake, pulling back in surprise and dismay. Faust licked at her elbow, and she looked around the room, calming when she saw Asra. She turned her gaze back to Artemis and extended her hand slowly and held perpendicular to the floor, gestures halting and slow as if she wasn't quite sure how her body would move.

Artemis tilted her head to the side. She felt her mouth drop open, just slightly, wondering at the gesture. Dema had always liked matching her palm against others, ever fascinated by how small her hands were by comparison. The odd habit was one of the first things she did when she was comfortable with a person. Artemis touched her palm to Dema’s.  _ This isn’t - this shouldn’t be possible. _

She closed her fingers around Artemis’ and smiled, the right side of her mouth lifting a hair’s breadth before the left. Just a touch crooked, just like Dema's always had been. “Is it you?”

“She hasn’t spoken. Not yet.” Asra settled on the bed next to the girl, and she snuggled against him with the same patterns of movements that Artemis had watched a hundred times before first with Asra, then with Julian: one arm looped around his, head pressed against his shoulder. Well, with Julian her head had only reached his bicep. 

Artemis rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes, wiping away tears she hadn't noticed before that moment. She’d cried months ago, when she found the shop door unlatched, hens running loose in the backyard, that painfully short note and that plain ring of Asra's left on the counter, warded with a spell she couldn't break. She’d slumped over the counter and cried. Then she had put the remaining hens - she thought Dema had a round dozen, but she could only find ten - back in their coop because Dema would have wanted that, even if Artemis had no way of reactivating the spells that kept out predators - animal and human both. She’d cried on the way to the palace, pausing once or twice in doorways to clear her eyes and find her balance again, but she stopped before she reached the gate, putting away tears to bully her way past the guards and find that damn boy - find Julian. She hadn't let herself start crying again - not even when Julian fell apart and sobbed for hours while she tried to comfort him.

“It is you.” She picked up Dema's free hand. Her blue eyes were bright with interest, and she smiled again, yet she said nothing. But she listened closely, watching their mouths, putting together how the sounds and meaning and lip movements came together. Artemis had seen it before with children beginning to speak, looking closely to unlock the magic of forming sounds into words. Her own daughter had been observing mouths like that before Sybil took her away to Prakra. “Asra, how did you?”

“I don't know. Really. But-” He combed his fingers through Dema's hair. “She doesn't seem to remember anything.”

“She knows you.”

Dema’s eyes darted from Artemis to Asra and then back again before finally settling on Faust, coiled in her lap. Asra was quiet for a moment. “She's decided I'm safe. I'm not sure she knows me from before.”

Artemis hesitated before speaking. “Julian? She might -”

Dema didn't respond to the name, but Asra's eyes darkened. “He's gone.”

“Where? The rumor in the streets is that he murdered the Count. That’s absurd, did he get away? Out of the city somehow?” Julian had contacts with the smugglers who had been getting a few supplies into the city over the past months. If they could get supplies in certainly they could get a wanted man out.

“I don't know.” Asra clutched his hand to his chest again, just over his heart. “He might have killed Lucio. He might not have. I just don’t know. If he did it... Where he is.” 

Artemis’ hands clenched into fists.  _ How can he be so cold!  _ “You even haven't tried to find him? Asra -”

“I don't care.”

Dema looked up at Asra clearly worried by the tone of his voice. Artemis patted her hand, attempting to reassure her and shook her head at Asra. “That's cruel. Even if there had never been anything between you and him, he - Maybe Dema would know him. He could help - maybe.”

“I  _ don't want _ to talk about him!”

Dema jumped up at Asra's raised voice, suddenly alert and apprehensive. Faust raised her head, turning her red eyes to Asra with a look that could easily be interpreted as a reproach. Asra looked over at Dema and ran his hand through her hair again. “Sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you.” Eyes glistening with tears, he looked back at Artemis. “Muriel and I had to get her back here. We couldn’t stop to look for Ilya.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “If she remembers anyone, it's Faust. Artemis, I don't know what to do.”

_ Muriel? Who is that? _ Artemis looked over the woman - no, Dema. He did have a point. She obviously shouldn’t be left alone. “I don't either, Asra.” So odd, grief in reverse felt just as unreal, like a waking dream, a reality that should not be, yet must be adjusted to again. She was in one of Dema's - no, one of her own - favorite, heavy wool sweaters. She looked warm. Cared for. Desperately confused. “How will you explain that she’s not -?”

“I'll come up with something. A mistake . . . She left the city suddenly to find me . . . A shipwreck. Knocked in the head. I don't know, something.” As Asra babbled, the girl started to fidget with the hem of her sweater. Then she yawned and curled up on her side, head in Asra's lap, exhausted and disinterested in the entire conversation.

Artemis couldn't stop herself from dissolving into a fit of giggles, because this was all too much. The plague ending. Dema raised from the dead.  _ This is absurd. This is impossible. And yet. _ Violet and blue eyes both looked at her in confusion. “It's nothing. Just, sweetie -” She reached out and touched the girl's shoulder. “This is the stage of affectionate I associate with you being very drunk.”

Dema's eyes narrowed in annoyance and for a moment, Artemis wondered if she understood more than she could put together into words. Asra’s hand remained on her, rubbing her side and her shoulder. Protective. Tender, even. Such a horrible contrast with how quick he was to cast Julian aside. 

“Please, Artemis -” Asra sounded desperate. “Help me.”

She felt her eyes harden as she lifted her head and looked at Asra.  _ This is, this is a dream, this is marvelous _ . This was the culmination of months of madness in which Asra had traveled farther and farther from this world and the stark laws that governed it. The laws that said we're all born and will all die and those are the only things that will be equal. 

_ This is so, so very wrong. _

“No, Asra. Not you.” Artemis moved to sit on the other side of Dema and gathered her old friend - her old, dead friend - into her arms, hugging her living, breathing body tight. “But I'll help her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are... That didn't exactly go as you planned, did it, Asra?
> 
> Verse 1: Check, Verse 2: Check, Bridge: Check - And now for the third verse back to the present, wherein yours truly is planning to scrap a goodly amount of canon and fill in some of those trixie plot holes.
> 
> Hit me up here or on Tumblr with questions and comments. [@aria-i-adagio](https://aria-i-adagio.tumblr.com/)


End file.
